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'I   DON'T  LIKE  THE  WAT  YOU  SAY  THAT,   DICK." 

Frontispiece.    Page  183. 


THE 

SPENDTHKIFT 

BY 

PORTER  EMERSON  BROWNE 
A  Story  of  American  Life 

NOVELIZED  FROM  THE  PLAY  BY 
EDWARD  MARSHALL 


Illustrations  from  Scenes  in  the  Play 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1910,  By 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 


THE   SPENDTHRIFT 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"I  don't  like  the  way  you  say  that,   Dick" 

Frontispiece   183 

"I  hoped  you  would  be  ready  to  step  in  and 

make  that  money" 82 

"No,  give  it  back  to  Frances.     She  didn't  get 

it   from  me" 290 

"Tell  him  to  come  here  at  once,  that  you  are 

alone  here" 304 


2134351 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT 


CHAPTER   I 

In  Washington  Square,  New  York's  extremes 
meet.  The  most  exclusively  aristocratic  portion  of 
Fifth  Avenue — where  the  newly-prosperous  are 
quite  unknown — debouches  into  it,  and  its  North 
side  is  bordered  by  the  residences  of  the  rich,  and, 
curiously  enough,  distinguished.  New  York  does 
not  contain  another  row  of  equal  length  as  notable. 
The  South  side  is  held  by  artists,  other  anarchists, 
and  little  business  folk,  like  dealers  in  that  vehicle 
once  popular,  now  obsolete,  the  bicycle.  To  the 
East  rise  mighty  business  buildings  where  once  the 
University  serenely  gloomed.  Only  the  West  side 
is  miscellaneous.  There  have  been  erected  flats  in 
which  all  classes  and  conditions  doubtless  live,  as 
elsewhere  in  flat  buildings. 

Oh,  yes,  another  detail.  There  is  a  church,  of 
really  progressive  principles,  among  the  anarchists 
of  the  South  side.  It  is  a  fine  memorial  to  a  great, 
unselfish  man,  a  missionary  surnamed  Judson,  and 
bearing  the  fine  given  name  Adoniram. 

Years  ago  a  woman  walked  and  wept  upon  the 
center  span  of  Brooklyn  Bridge — a  poor,  frail  girl 
who  had  gone  wrong  and  much  regretted  it.  An 
author  (this  seems  too  fortuitous  to  be  quite  true 
but  is  the  fact)  was  also  on  the  bridge  that  mid- 
night, seeking  either  air  or  things  to  write  about, 


io  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

I  am  not  sure  which.  He  noticed  the  unfortunate, 
and,  after  hesitating,  spoke  to  her  and  asked  her  if 
there  was  not  something  he  might  do  to  mitigate 
her  sorrow. 

She  had  gone  there  to  the  bridge,  she  told  him, 
for  the  purpose  of  committing  suicide,  but,  looking 
off  across  the  lighted  city  (as  one  looks  when  one 
is  standing  on  the  verge  of  death  and  knows  it),  a 
flaming  cross  had  caught  and  had  compelled  her 
eye.  This  glowing  signal  had,  she  told  him, 
changed  her  trend  of  thought.  It  had  roused  in 
her  unhappy  soul  a  thrill  of  hope.  She  had  de- 
cided not  to  kill  herself.  She  was  weeping  at  the 
thought  of  the  tremendous  fight  with  life  which 
now,  once  more,  loomed  in  her  future. 

What  happened  afterward  to  the  poor  girl  I 
have  no  means  of  knowing.  The  cross  still  flames 
its  message  to  the  city  from  the  great  church  on  the 
South  square;  but  the  measure  of  its  influence  is 
curtailed,  for  skyscrapers  fence  it  now;  its  glow  is 
hid  to  the  whole  city,  save  the  Square  itself,  by  cliffs 
of  brick.  From  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  it  is  invisible 
these  nights. 

Just  as  its  light  flashed  up  on  a  late  autumn  af- 
ternoon some  years  bygone  a  bustling  woman  left 
an  elevated  railway  train  at  Bleecker  Street,  unob- 
trusively but  most  effectually  pushed  her  way 
through  the  debarking  crowd  upon  the  station  plat- 
form, zigzagged  down  the  stairway  so  cleverly 
that  without  seeming  to  thrust  anyone  aside  she 
gained  at  least  three  stairs  on  the  crowd's  average 
speed  in  the  descent,  stepped  out  upon  the  greasy 
sidewalk  of  dingy  South  Fifth  Avenue,  and  made 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  n 

her  way  with  steady  step,  not  fast,  not  slow,  carry- 
ing her  farther,  straighter  than  the  average,  to- 
ward the  south  entrance  of  the  Square.  Before  she 
reached  the  Square  itself  she  saw  the  great  arch 
there  erected  to  the  memory  of  Washington  loom 
gloomily  through  the  electric  haze  and  smiled  as 
she  caught  sight  of  it.  She  knew  that  the  commun- 
ity which,  spurred  by  New  York's  momentary  love 
for  a  dead  hero,  had  erected  it,  had  paid  more  for 
the  work  or  the  material,  or  both,  than  it  or  they 
were  worth. 

Had  she  had  charge  of  the  erection  of  the  arch 
this  could  not  possibly  have  happened,  for  Gretchen 
Jans  would  not  be  cheated.  That  was  and  is  one 
reason  why  she  was  and  is  the  richest  woman  in 
America,  mistress  of  a  mighty  fortune  built  up  by 
her  own  unique  intelligence. 

She  was  not  this  evening  impressive  in  appear- 
ance, indeed,  she  never  was  or  is.  She  does  not 
wear  things  on  her  sleeve — not  even  lace.  She  had 
not  worn  her  heart  there  in  her  youth,  she  did  not 
wear  her  wealth  there  now,  in  her  descending  mid- 
dle-age. 

Her  gown  was  of  the  fashion-before-last,  or 
even  more  archaic;  her  bonnet  dated  from  a  some- 
what earlier  period;  her  gloves  were  not  gloves 
really,  but  knitted  mitts;  her  shoes  were  broad  of 
toe,  substantial  in  their  soles,  flat-heeled.  The  boy 
brother  of  Richard  Ward  (the  latter  was  a  rising 
stockbroker  and  suitor  of  her  niece,  Frances  Van 
Zandt)  looked  down  upon  those  shoes  once,  later, 
and  whispered  to  the  richest  woman's  younger 
niece,  Clarice  Van  Zandt: 


12  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"My,  my !  I'll  bet  Aunt  Gretchen  can  kick  hard  1" 

The  niece  pouted.  "Your  slang  is  rather  dread- 
ful, Monty,"  she  replied,  "but  it  is  expressive. 
Kick  I  Well !  With  all  her  money !  Frances  and 
myself  have  scarcely  anything  to  wear!" 

"You  seem  to  have,"  he  said,  admiring  her. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  she,  "you  know  precisely  what 
I  mean.  Imagine!  and  with  all  her  money!" 

As  Gretchen  Jans  on  the  dim  evening  when  this 
story  opens  approached  the  Square,  she  saw  Fran- 
ces, the  elder  niece,  very  much  excited,  standing  by 
a  dingy  little  pile  of  household  goods  which  had 
been  thrust  upon  the  sidewalk  from  the  tenement 
apartment  of  an  evicted  family.  She  was  arguing, 
angry-eyed,  with  the  evictors.  The  family  dis- 
tressed consisted  of  a  sad-faced  father,  his  lack  of 
business  sense  stamped  on  his  countenance  as  if 
with  type,  an  overworked,  much  underfed  young 
mother,  and  their  trio  of  small  children.  Frances, 
just  budded  into  beautiful  young  womanhood,  was 
much  incensed. 

"But  I  tell  you  I  will  pay  you,  not  later  than  to- 
morrow afternoon,"  she  was  declaring. 

"No  good,  miss,"  said  the  obdurate  but  not  at 
all  discourteous  fat  man  who  had  conducted  the 
eviction.  "We  got  to  have  our  money  now." 

Aunt  Gretchen  paused  and  watched.  Her  pause 
was  quite  as  full  of  energy  as  her  progression  had 
been.  An  elevated  railway  pillar  threw  its  dense, 
black  shadow  near  and  she  slipped  partly  into  it. 
Being  thick,  if  short,  she  occupied  the  full  width  of 
the  shadow. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  13 

The  niece  was  now  almost  reduced  to  tears  by 
the  misfortunes  of  the  suffering  paupers. 

"Why  can't  you  wait  one  day?"  she  demanded 
of  the  plump,  well-fed  evictor. 

"We've  waited  days  an'  days  an'  days  an'  days," 
he  answered,  and  then  sharply  shut  his  jaw.  He 
was  so  fat  it  did  not  even  snap;  it  thudded.  His 
abundant  flesh  contrasted  strikingly  with  the  figures 
of  his  victims,  who  happened  to  be  thin  by  temper- 
ament, and  this  added  to  the  girl's  hot  wrath. 

"But  won't  you  wait  just  one  day  more?  I — I 
haven't  very  much,  to-day.  This  evening  I  can  get 
some  of  my  aunt — I — guess — and  then  I'll  surely 
let  you  have  it." 

"I'm  sorry,  miss,"  said  the  evictor,  with  a  shak- 
ing head. 

She  saw  that  he  was  firm,  so  very  firm  that  not 
her  smiles,  her  pouts,  even  her  tears,  would 
make  him  budge.  She  hated  him  intensely,  al- 
though she  never  in  her  life  had  seen  the  man  be- 
fore and  would  not,  probably,  see  him  again.  He 
was  unreasonable — very — she  declared  within  her 
soul.  He  was  insisting  on  the  proper  payment  of 
a  debt  or  the  provided  penalty.  Instinctively  she 
sided  with  the  debtor  class  and  loathed  all  cred- 
itors. But,  seeing  that  he  would  not  yield,  she 
took  the  money  from  her  purse — it  was  within  a 
dollar  of  the  last  cent  in  that  purse — and  handed  it 
to  him  with  a  fine  scowl. 

"Well,  take  it  now  then!"  she  said,  angrily. 

While,  wrapped  in  the  shadow  of  the  elevated 
railway  pillar,  Gretchen  Jans  stood  watching,  an 
extremely  handsome  girl,  the  junior  of  the  one  who 


14  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

was  preventing  the  eviction,  came  through  the  park, 
along  the  street,  and  hurried  to  Frances. 

"What  in  the  world,  Frances!"  said  the  new- 
comer. "I  was  getting  worried  about  you.  It's 
dark." 

"Yes,"  said  her  sister,  with  a  vicious  glance  at 
the  short  fat  man,  as  if  that  were  his  fault,  "but 
this — man — here"  (she  had  almost  said  "this 
brute")  "won't  trust  me  till  to-morrow  for  these 
poor  creatures'  rent.  As  I  came  by  I  found  that  he 
was  actually  putting  them  and  all  their  things  upon 
the  street." 

There  was  some  further  talk,  the  short  fat  man, 
who  really  was  not  especially  a  brute,  himself  sug- 
gested a  receipt  and  gave  it,  and  then  helped  take 
the  things  back  up  the  tenement  stairs,  the  sisters 
crossed  the  Square  together  and,  climbing  the  steps 
before  the  comfortable,  solid-looking,  but  not 
showy,  old  Jans  home,  sat  at  their  top  and  talked. 

"I  suppose  I'll  have  to  go  without  the  collar," 
said  Frances,  and  sighed.  "She  would  have  paid 
the  rent,  I  think,  if  I  had  had  a  chance  to  tell  her 
all  about  it — the  little  children  and  all  that — " 

"She  might  have,"  Clarice  answered,  doubt- 
fully. 

"But  now  that  I  have  paid  it — " 

"Yes;  you'll  have  to  do  without  the  collar. 
You'll  never  get  it  back.  She'll  say  that  it  can  be  a 
lesson  to  you.  She'll  say,  when  you  remark  that  it 
was  a  most  worthy  deed,  that  she  doesn't  want  to 
rob  you  of  the  satisfaction  of  the  sacrifice; 
she'll—" 

"Stop,  please!     You  do  make  me  so  nervous, 


Clarice.  It's  bad  enough  to  have  to  go  without  the 
collar  without  having  you — " 

"They  are  not  the  sort  of  folk  whom  she  calls 
'worthy,'  that  is,  'thrifty,'  "  said  her  sister,  and  the 
"thrifty"  was  accented.  "And  with — all — her — 
millions!  Here's  all  I've  got,  I'll  share  your  loss." 

"She  sometimes  acts  as  if  she  feared  that  she 
would  be  evicted,"  Frances  granted. 

The  butler,  a  staid  Irishman,  of  age,  and,  evi- 
dently, very  massive  self-respect,  came  to  the  door. 

"Mr.  Ward  came,  miss,  while  you  was  out. 
He's  waiting  in  the  library,"  he  announced  to 
Frances. 

The  girl  rose  hurriedly,  evidently  pleased.  Her 
sister  sprang  up  also,  with  pretty  eagerness,  and 
put  her  hands  upon  the  elder  girl's  fine  shoulders, 
looking  smilingly  inquisitive  into  her  eyes. 

"Has  he— yet?"  she  asked.  "Please  tell  me!" 
.  .  .  "You  never  told  me  of  the  other  one — of 
Suffern  Thorne  until  weeks  after  you'd  refused 
him." 

"Has  he  what,  you  silly?"  said  the  elder  girl, 
blushing  very  sweetly. 

The  sisters,  both,  were  most  attractive,  even 
beautiful — the  flower  and  the  bud  of  fine  young 
womanhood.  Seeing  them  together  thus,  one 
would  not  fail  to  guess  that  they  were  sisters, 
although  their  coloring  was  different,  Frances  be- 
ing light  and  Clarice  dark.  There  was  strong  fel- 
lowship between  them,  one  could  see  that  also.  It 
was  easy  to  believe  that  they  would  always  join 
their  forces  against  opposition  offered  to  the  one  or 


1 6  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

to  the  other.    Now,  though,  the  elder  sister  played 
at  reticence. 

"Has  he?"  begged  Clarice.  "I  meant  to  ask 
you  if  he  did  the  other  evening,  but — I've  been  so 
worried  over  clothes — Aunt  Gretchen  is  so  stingy." 

Frances  plainly  would  have  been  delighted  to 
prolong  the  situation  tantalizingly,  but  also  plainly 
she  was  anxious  to  go  in  to  greet  the  caller. 

"No,  he  hasn't,"  she  said,  laughing. 

"But  he  will,  won't  he?"  her  sister  asked,  with 
some  show  of  disappointment. 

"How  do /know?" 

"Well,  /  know." 

The  butler  stepped  back  to  the  door. 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  he,  with  a  queer  smile  that 
showed  that  he  had  not  forgotten,  but  was  possibly 
a  bit  malicious,  "Master  Monty  Ward  is  halso 
'ere." 

Clarice  blushed  furiously,  while  Frances  burst 
into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"There,  little  girl,"  said  she,  "don't  trouble 
your  big  sister  any  more.  The  little  boy  has  come 
with  his  big  brother,  doubtless  for  the  special  pur- 
pose of  amusing  you  and  keeping  you  from  bother- 
ing your  elders  and  superiors." 

"'Master'!"  said  Clarice,  "I  hate  him!" 

"You  do?"  Her  sister  was  amused.  As  she 
made  haste  to  pat  her  hair  a  bit  and  rearrange  a 
lace  or  two  she  bent  before  a  small,  low  mirror  in 
the  comfortable,  wide  old  hall  into  which  they  had 
advanced,  and  asked  in  whispers,  "Why,  dear?" 
The  words  were  full  of  laughter,  and  her  laugh  was 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  17 

very  sweet.  It  was  luxurious,  as  everything  about 
her  was. 

"Why — why — he's  so  young"  her  sister  an- 
swered. 

"Oh,  I  thought  you  meant  you  hated  the  poor 
butler.  You  mean  Monty?  Young?  He'll  get 
over  that.  Now  come  along  and  take  him  out  to 
play  with  you." 

"Frances,  you  seem  to  think  I  am  a  babe !" 

"And  aren't  you?" 

Frances  disappeared,  going  to  the  drawing- 
room. 

Clarice  stepped  into  the  dim  library.  Presently 
a  youth  went  by  the  door  and  out  to  the  front 
steps.  After  a  moment's  waiting,  she  strolled  out 
with  perfectly  assumed  indifference  (in  spite  of  her 
short  skirts)  and  also  sought  the  broad,  white  mar- 
ble steps  before  the  door,  which  stood  wide  open, 
because  of  the  fine  late  spring  weather.  She  went 
as  if  by  merest  chance. 

"What?  You  here?"  she  said  to  the  em- 
barrassed youth  who  crouched  there,  anxiously 
awaiting  her. 

"Didn't  Murphy  tell  you?" 

"Perhaps  so ;  I  have  really  forgotten." 

"Oh,  I  say,  now!" 

"Isn't  it  too  dreadful  to  have  to  call  the  butler 
'Murphy'  ?  Auntie  absolutely  will  not  let  us  force 
him  to  permit  us  to  select  a  better  name  for  him." 

The  subject  of  the  butler's  name  did  not  very 
deeply  interest  the  youth — a  clean-cut  boy  of  twenty 
— and,  as  he  urged  them,  she  accepted  others.  Ap- 
parently they  were  engrossing,  for  presently  the 


1 8  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

two  were  in  quite  confidential  conversation  on  the 
cushions  while  the  darkness  grew. 

"We  might  go  into  the  library,"  said  Clarice, 
"but  it's  so  stuffy  in  there.  And  Frances  and  your 
brother  have  the  drawing-room." 

"Pigs,"  said  Monty,  gravely. 

"I  don't  suppose  they'd  care  to  have  us  join  them 
there,"  she  tittered,  wisely. 

"No,  I  think  not."  He  looked  at  her  and  tried 
to  smile  a  worldly  smile,  but  blushed  instead.  She 
saw  his  blush,  tried  not  to  laugh,  and  choked. 

Presently  she  told  him  of  the  cruel  individual 
whom  Frances  had  discovered,  red-handed,  in  the 
act  of  putting  a  poor  family  out  of  their  cheap 
home  because  they  did  not  pay  their  rent. 

"But  perhaps  the  landlord  needed  it,"  he  pro- 
tested, somewhat  weakly. 

"Nonsense!"  she  replied.  "He's  probably  as 
rich  as  cheese." 

He  took  his  cue,  as  youths  will  take  their  cues 
when  maidens  they  adore  present  them  to  them 
with  such  emphasis.  He  did  not  quite,  young  as 
he  was,  agree  with  her  in  thinking  that  a  landlord 
should  let  tenants  who  do  not  pay  rent  remain  the 
occupants  of  buildings;  but  he  would  not  have 
been  insistent  with  his  theories  for  worlds. 

"Yes,  probably,"  he  granted,  sending  his  con- 
victions flying  to  the  four  winds.  "The  brute !" 

"That's  what  I  shall  tell  auntie,"  said  the  girl. 
"She — we — paid  the  rent,  you  know,  and — " 

"You  generous  girl!"  His  voice  was  worship- 
ful, even  a  little  tremulous. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "I  really  am  generous."     His 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  19 

praise  of  her  delighted  her  as  smoothing  does  a 
kitten.  It  quite  excused  her  own  addition  to  it. 
Then:  "And  I  don't  know  if  auntie'll  give  it  back. 
And  I  need  so  many  things!" 

He  did  not  catch  the  little  revelation;  and  did 
not  know  that  she  had  made  one  which  would  have 
much  impressed  a  shrewder  and  less  partial  pair 
of  ears.  "Oh,  surely  she  will  give  it  back.  She — " 

She  leaned  toward  him  confidentially.  "Auntie 
isn't  very — generous,"  she  said  in  intimate  whis- 
pers. "She — she  sometimes  almost  acts  as  if  she 
might  be — stingy!" 

The  youth  tried  not  to  laugh.  He  was,  of 
course,  despite  his  innocence,  far  more  sophisti- 
cated than  the  maiden  was,  and  he  had  heard  the 
stories  which  the  whole  town  told  of  Mrs.  Gretchen 
Jans — amazing  tales  of  business  shrewdness.  Still, 
there  were  other  stories  told  about  her,  too,  and  he 
remembered  them.  He  would  be  generous.  The 
fact  that  the  good  tales  were  scarcely  credited  he 
would  not  mention. 

"I've  heard  some  awfully  fine  things  about  her," 
he  said,  hesitantly. 

"About  Aunt  Gretchen  when  it  was  a  case  of 
money?"  she  inquired,  incredulously. 

"Yes,  there  was  the  Coolidge  Company.  They 
would  have  gone  to  smash  last  summer  if  she 
hadn't  voluntarily  hurried  to  their  rescue,  I  am 
told." 

"Oh,  business  people,"  she  said  scornfully. 
"Quite  possible,  she  knew  that  she  would  get  her 
money  back." 

"Well,  one  expects  to  get  one's  money  back,  you 


20  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

know,  or  else,  how  in  the  world,  could  one  afford 
to-" 

"Monty,  I  do  hope  you're  not  sordid!" 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  he  answered,  hastily.  "I'm  not,  a 
bit.  I'm  the  most  generous — everybody  says  I'm 
easy." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  she  replied  with  heavy 
emphasis.  "I  do  hate  stinginess.  I'm  just  sure 
I'll  never  get  my  money  back.  Why,  everyone  but 
we  have  been  gone  ages  ago  to  the  country.  We've 
stayed  in  town  in  spite  of  all  the  blazing  heat." 

"If  you  were  not  in  town  I  wouldn't  have  the  fun 
of  sitting  here  with  you  to-night,  so — " 

The  firm,  staccato  step  of  earnest  and  indus- 
trious feet,  not  lightly  shod,  tap-tapped  upon  the 
near-by  pavement.  A  lull  had  stilled  the  noises  of 
the  city  for  a  second,  as  occurs  at  times,  and  Clarice 
caught  the  rat-tat  of  the  footsteps,  recognizing 
them  upon  the  second. 

"She's  coming,"  she  exclaimed  in  a  stage  whis- 
per. 

"Well,  children,"  said  Aunt  Gretchen,  as  she 
paused  at  the  bottom  of  the  short  flight  of  steps. 
"Pleasant,  isn't  it,  to-night." 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Jans,"  said  Monty,  rising 
hastily.  He  was  exceedingly  well-mannered,  and 
the  shrewd  eyes  of  the  newcomer  noted  this  ap- 
provingly. 

A  fretwork  of  electric  light  fell  on  him  through 
the  branches  of  a  tree  as  he  stood  waiting  for  her 
to  come  up,  but  the  moving  of  the  shadows  did  not 
hide  his  manly  carriage  and  alertness.  She  smiled 
at  him. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  21 

"The  night  crowd  in  the  Square,"  said  she,  uis 
always  interesting.  All  sorts." 

"You're  late,"  Clarice  said,  making  room  for 
her,  although  the  way  her  aunt  lounged  on  the  steps 
annoyed  her,  vaguely,  always.  There  are  so  many 
ways  of  sitting  down,  and  when  Aunt  Gretchen  sat 
down  on  those  steps  she  sat  on  them  to  rest.  The 
young  girl  told  herself  that  her  aunt  "slumped." 
It  was  quite  true  and  wholly  characteristic.  When 
Gretchen  Jans  was  resting  she  did  it  quite  as  thor- 
oughly as,  when  she  worked,  she  worked. 

"Yes,"  was  the  reply,  "a  little  late.  Found 
some  things  to  'tend  to  when  I  was  almost  home." 

"Really?"  said  Clarice,  disturbed  a  little,  both 
because  her  aunt  was  staying  there  and  interrupting 
her  entirely  insignificant  but  very  pleasant  tete-a 
tete  with  Monty,  and  because  she  "slumped."  It 
made  her  feel  a  little  bit  ashamed  of  her,  although 
she  did  not  think  that  Monty  noticed  it.  She  won- 
dered if  he  did. 

Her  aunt  looked  shrewdly  at  her.  "Yes,"  said 
she.  "As  I  was  coming  from  the  station  I  ran  into 
an  eviction." 

The  girl  looked  at  her  amazed. 

"What,"  said  she,  involuntarily,  "another?" 

"No,  same  one.  I  saw  Frances  pay  that  rent, 
Clarice,  and  saw  you  take  your  part  of  the  good 
deed." 

The  girl  was  much  disturbed.  She  felt  that  there 
was  disapproval  in  the  voice,  although  it  was  not 
definite. 

"Ah — did  you?"     She  spoke  almost  timidly. 

"Uh-huh.     And — he'll  never  pay  you  back.     I 


22  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

know  him — shiftless  and  improvident.  Never  be 
paid  back."  She  rose.  "Good-night,  Monty. 
Guess  I'll  go  in.  Haven't  had  my  supper  yet. 
Everybody  takes  my  time.  People  are  such  fools ! 
And  I'm  a  very  busy  woman.  Your  brother's  in- 
side, isn't  he,  with  Frances?" 

Monty  nodded. 

"Yes,  I  thought  so;  well,  good-night." 

"There!"  said  Clarice,  breathlessly,  unhappily, 
when  she  had  disappeared.  "You  see?" 

Monty  was  uncomfortable.  Being  a  mere  man, 
he  was  affected  by  the  atmosphere  of  competence, 
good  sense,  good  humor  and  fair  dealing  which 
Aunt  Gretchen  carried  with  her  everywhere.  He 
wondered  if,  perhaps,  she  did  not  have  the  right  of 
it,  and  the  most  wonderful  of  maidens  did  not  have 
the  wrong  of  it,  about  the  tenant  who  had  been  un- 
able or  unwilling  to  pay  rent. 

"Er — she  says  she  knows  the  man,"  he  timidly 
suggested. 

"Suppose  she  does!"  Clarice  said,  angrily. 
"Suppose  he  is  too  poor  to  pay!  Why  should  we 
lose?" 

"You  took  the  chance,  you  know,"  said  Monty, 
timidly. 

Clarice  tossed  her  head,  as  if  this  did  not  mat- 
ter. 

"I'm  sorry  to  admit  it,"  she  said  scornfully,  "but 
Aunt  Gretchen's  god  is  money." 

After  she  had  told  the  butler  that  she  had  ar- 
rived, quite  as  a  tired,  hungry  business  man  might 
tell  his  butler,  and  suggested  very  definitely  exact- 
ly what  she  wished  to  eat  in  twenty  minutes,  Mrs. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  23 

Jans  went  blandly  to  the  drawing-room  and  entered 
without  ceremony. 

"Well,  Richard,"  she  said  genially  to  Ward, 
"I'm  glad  to  see  you."  Then  to  Frances:  "Every- 
thing all  right,  Frances?  You  look  a  little  bit  con- 
fused." Then  she  turned  again  to  Ward.  "How 
has  the  market  used  you  lately,  Richard?" 

Ward  was  possibly  at  first  a  bit  confused  him- 
self, but  he  was  not  a  bashful  youth  as  Monty  was. 
He  had  the  self-possession  of  the  able,  cultivated, 
highly  educated,  natty,  financial  district  New  York 
business  man. 

"The  market  has  been  kind  to  me,"  he  answered, 
smiling. 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  I  don't  know  that  I  approve 
of  the  Stock  Market  as  a  man's  profession,"  she 
said  briskly,  "but  your  crowd  is  straight,  as  the 
crowds  go  down  there.  I'm  glad  you're  doing 
well.  Tell  me  what  your  deals  have  been,  of 
late." 

Her  niece  sank  back  into  the  sofa-pillows  lan- 
guidly. She  felt  almost  as  much  aggrieved  by 
Gretchen  Jans'  intrusion  on  her  tete-a-tete  with 
Richard  Ward  as  her  sister  had  when  her  aunt 
had  joined  her  and  his  brother  on  the  steps  out- 
side. She  did  not  even  make  an  effort  to  seem 
interested  in  the  talk  which  followed.  It  obvious- 
ly bored  her. 

Richard  soon  became  absorbed,  however,  and  it 
was  with  a  real  start  that  he  discovered,  a  few 
moments  later,  that  the  girl  had  been,  to  all  intents 
and  purposes,  excluded  from  the  conversation. 


24  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

She  smiled  at  him  very  pleasantly  as  she  rose, 
however. 

"I'm  going,  now,"  she  said.  "I'll  leave  you 
with  Aunt  Gretchen.  How  you  two  do  chatter 
about  dollars  when  you  get  together!" 

"About  how  to  get  them,  Frances,"  said  her 
aunt,  without  a  smile.  "It  seems  to  me  that  I 
have  heard  you  chatter  about  how  to  spend  them." 

"I  am  afraid  it  interests  me  more,"  said  Frances 
languidly. 

"Yes,"  her  aunt  replied,  and  there  was,  as  she 
finished,  that  little  disapproving  snap  in  her  in- 
flection, "I  am  afraid  it  does." 

Her  face  grew  grave.  There  were  no  plain 
signs  on  it  of  utter  disapproval  of  her  niece,  but 
it  was  far  from  smiling  warm  approval,  as  the 
delicious  creature  said  good-night  to  Richard,  nod- 
ded gaily  to  her,  and  went  out. 

"I  suppose,"  said  she,  then,  turning  to  the  man, 
"that  that's  a  put  up  job."  She  did  not  speak  un- 
pleasantly, but  merely  practically. 

"What  is  a  put  up  job?" 

"Her  going  out,  like  that." 

He  threw  his  head  back  and  laughed  heartily. 
He  admired  Aunt  Gretchen  and  was  not  afraid 
of  her.  Men  rarely  were — unless  they  owed  her 
money;  and  those  who  owed  her  money  did  not 
flinch  from  her  sharp  gaze  if  everything  was  right 
and  straight.  They  never  feared  that  she  would 
take  unfair  advantage  of  them  just  because  they 
were  her  debtors. 

"Well,"  he  admitted,  "yes;  it  was." 

"I  thought  so." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  25 

"We-" 

"You  think  you  are  in  love."  Again  she  did 
not  speak  unkindly;  she  did  not  even  speak  with 
skeptical  inflection.  She  merely  spoke  without  the 
ring  of  sympathetic  sentiment. 

"We  are  in  love." 

"Umph." 

"Very  much  in  love — Aunt — Gretchen." 

He  had  hesitated  over  the  familiar  address.  She 
noted  it  with  instant  understanding,  and  replied 
to  it  as  if  he  had  asked  her  permission.  "Oh, 
yes,"  said  she,  "I  don't  object  to  having  you  call 
me  your  aunt.  I  like  you,  Richard." 

"Thank  you."    . 

"Don't  thank  me;  you've  earned  it.  You're  a 
good  young  man." 

"Then  I  may  hope  that  you  will  not  refuse — " 

"Refuse  to  let  you  marry  Frances?  No;  I 
shan't  refuse  to  let  you  marry  Frances,  Richard, 
but  I  shall  advise  you  not  to." 

Her  tone  was  absolutely  smooth  and  even;  she 
spoke  as  if  they  might  be  talking  over  some  mere 
business  commonplace.  "Yes;  I  shall  advise  you 
not  to,  Richard." 

"Why?"  he  asked,  astonished. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you.  You  knew  her  father, 
didn't  you?" 

"Yes;  as  a  child;  not  well,  or  understandingly, 
of  course.  They  all  say,  now,  that  he  might  have 
ranked  high  among  the  nation's  painters  if — " 

"If  he  had  had  horse-sense  in  money  matters. 
Yes;  he  might.  He  had  good  points — a  number 


26  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

of  them.  But  he  didn't  have  horse-sense  in 
money  matters,  and — " 

"Died  poor." 

"Oh,  more  than  that;  a  good  deal  more  than 
that.  Don't  think  that  I  consider  money  all  there 
is.  A  lot  of  people  think  that  of  me,  but  it  isn't 
true.  I  like  money,  because  I  find  it  very  useful. 
You  don't  see  me  wasting  it." 

"No,"  he  granted. 

A  grim  smile  played  upon  her  face.  She  knew, 
as  well  as  anyone,  exactly  what  her  reputation  was, 
and  did  not  fail  to  get  enjoyment  of  it,  perhaps. 

"I'm  not  a  waster,  Richard,  for  I'm  not  a  fool," 
she  went  on,  slowly.  "But  I'm  not  a  miser,  either, 
and  some  foolish  people  think  I  am.  Now  the 
father  of  those  two  girls  was  a  waster,  and,  Rich- 
ard, I'm  afraid  the  girls  are  wasters  too.  You 
want  a  waster  for  your  wife,  do  you?" 

"I  want  Frances  for  my  wife." 

"Well,  you  can  have  her,  if  you  want  her  and 
she  wants  to  have  you  have  her.  You'll  be  good  to 
her.  I'm  sure  of  that.  I'm  not  so  sure  that  she'll 
be  good  to  you,  although  she  means  well,  Frances 
does.  I  should  be  glad  to  feel  that  she  was  marry- 
ing so  well  if  I  was  not  so  worried." 

"About—?" 

"I've  already  told  you.  I'm  very  fond  of 
Frances,  mind  you.  But  I  should  hate  to  see  you 
miserable,  and  I'm  afraid  you're  going  to  be.  If 
you  want  her,  take  her,  but — look  out." 

The  butler  came  and  stood,  respectful  but  not 
humble,  in  the  door.  He  did  not  knock  or  even 
clear  his  throat  to  warn  them  of  his  coming. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  27 

Richard,  who  had  started  on  a  sentence  cut  it  short 
and  looked  at  him  a  bit  resentfully.  She  noticed 
it. 

"Don't  mind  Murphy,"  she  said  calmly. 
"Murphy  keeps  his  mouth  shut.  That's  why  he 
keeps  his  place  with  me  and  why  he  kept  his  place 
with  Mr.  Jans  before  he — passed  away."  It  was 
quite  clear  that  she  had  hesitated  at  the  use  of  the 
word  "died."  She  was  old-fashioned. 

She  rose.  "Murphy  means,  by  standing  there 
like  that,  that  supper's  waiting  for  me." 

"Haven't  you  had  supper?"  Ward  was  sur- 
prised. 

"No;  I  had  to  stop,  for  something,  on  the 
way  uptown.  There's  a  man  whom  I  have  known 
for  years  on  South  Fifth  Avea«e^^Runs  a  little 
fancy-goods  store.  Son  went  wronglioFTong  ago. 
He's  spent  almost  every  cent  he  has  to  keep  him 
out  of  jail.  Looked  like  he  was  going  to  be  dis- 
possessed." 

"That  was  the  case  that  Frances  spoke  about?" 

"No ;  that  man  was  dispossessed.  The  girls  gave 
him  their  money — loaned  it,  they  believe — and  he 
got  back  into  his  rooms.  My  man  wasn't  dis- 
possessed. They  threatened  it.  That's  all." 

Ward  smiled  at  her.  "Well,  you  speak  of 
the  girls  scornfully  because  they  gave  their  money 
to  save  one,  while,  in  the  same  breath  you  acknowl- 
edge that  you  gave  your  own  to  save  another." 

"No ;  they  gav« ;  I  lent :  I'll  get  my  money  back. 
They'll  never  see  theirs  any  more.  You  see,  I 
helped  my  man  by  lending  to  him.  I  took  a  mort- 
gage on  his  little  stock.  He  is  the  kind  of  man  who 


28  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

wouldn't  have  permitted  me  to  help  him  if  he 
hadn't  given  me  that  mortgage.  That's  why  I 
helped  him.  The  man  they  helped — I  know  him, 
too.  He's  been  dispossessed  from  time  to  time, 
from  that  and  other  tenements  around  here,  for 
ten  years.  That's  the  difference,  you  see.  My 
man  will  pay.  I  helped  him  when  I  lent  to  him. 
He's  got  to  pay.  I've  got  security.  Their  man 
won't  pay.  They  hurt  him  when  they  lent  to  him. 
They  encouraged  him  to  be  a  pauper." 

"I  think  I  get  your  point  of  view." 

She  had  led  the  way  into  the  heavy,  sombre 
dining-room.  The  chairs  were  good  mahogany, 
but  were  upholstered  in  haircloth.  The  pictures 
on  the  walls  showed  fish  with  glassy  eyes,  and  at 
one  end  of  the  room  was  a  large,  dingy  painting 
of  a  stag  with  one  foot  lifted  while  the  other  three 
were  hidden  in  deep  grass  that  looked  like  straw 
from  packing  cases.  This  stag  also  had  a  glassy 
eye,  and  apparently  was  badly  worried  about  some- 
thing. Every  time  Ward  saw  the  picture  he  as- 
sured himself  that  the  stag  doubtless  was  in  pain 
because  the  eye  was  such  a  miserable  fit. 

"No,"  she  went  on,  after  she  was  seated  at  the 
table  and  had  begun  to  eat  her  ample  slice  of  cold 
roast  beef,  "I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  that  you 
mustn't  marry  Frances,  for  I  know  you  love  her 
and  she  loves  you,  Richard.  It's  a  hard  position 
for  me.  I  believe  you're  going  to  be  unhappy  and 
yet  there's  nothing  I  can  do,  except  to  warn  you 
that  she  knows  no  more  of  money  or  of  business — 
er — er — customs"  (she  had  almost  said  integrity), 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  29 

"than  a  stuffed  poodle  does.  Understand  me — I 
love  Frances,  but  I  see  her  faults." 

He  sat  opposite  her,  smiling  very  happily.  Her 
criticism  of  her  niece  did  not  affect  him  much.  He 
knew  that  in  some  details  they  did  not  get  on  to- 
gether very  well ;  but  he  thought  she  was  probably 
too  severe. 

"I  think,"  said  she,  reflectively,  "that  she'll  be 
very  glad  to  get  away  from  me.  She'll  want  to 
marry  very  soon,  I  think.  She  isn't  happy  here. 
I  know  it.  She  thinks  I  am  too  stingy.  I've  tried 
to  teach  her  things  and  she  has  not  been  able  to 
absorb  the  lessons.  She  hasn't  wanted  to  absorb 
the  lessons.  Yes,  she  thinks  I'm  stingy." 

"She'll  be  glad  to  go  and  Clarice  will  be  broken- 
hearted. It  will  leave  her  all  alomTwrth-tne,  you 
see — alone  with  old  Ma'am  Stingy."  She  looked 
up  with  a  really  bright  smile.  "That's  what  they'd 
like  to  call  me,  I  guess.  Probably  they  do,  behind 
my  back.  They're  just  alike  about  these  things." 

He  paid  little  heed  to  what  she  said.  He  was 
too  much  in  love  and  too  inordinately  happy. 

"I've  been  very  worried  over  things,"  he  said. 

"Worried  over  what  things?"  she  asked  cour- 
teously. 

"Well,  first,  I  worried  over  Suffern  Thorne." 

"Bah!"  She  sniffed  with  real  disgust.  "They 
say  I  worship  money— well,  he's  got  money,  and 
I'd  rather  tie  up  Frances  in  an  old  salt  bag,  and 
drown  her  as  I  would  a  crippled  kitten  than  stand 
by  and  see  her  marry  Suffern  Thorne." 

Ward  showed  that  he  was  pleased. 


30  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"He  worried  me.     He  is  that  sort  of — highly 
polished  person — " 

"Polished?     He's  as  slippery  as  an  eel." 
"The  sort  of  highly  polished  person  that  I  was 
afraid  might  really  appeal  to  the  imagination  of 
a  girl." 

"He  hung  around.     I  don't  know  whether  he 
was  really  in  love  with  her.     Maybe  he  believed 
that  he  could  marry  her,  maybe  he  didn't  want  to." 
"Did  she  send  him  away?" 
"I  asked  her,  once:     'Frances,  are  you  in  love 
with  that  dress-suited  black-snake?'     'Not  in  the 
least,'   she  answered,   and  I  knew  she  meant  it. 
'That's  the  first  real  sign  of  sense  I've  seen  in  you 
for  years,'  said  I." 

Ward  laughed,   relieved,   amused,    and  happy. 
"I  am  glad  she  doesn't  like  him,"  he  exclaimed. 
"Have  you  worried  over  anyone  else?" 
"Well,  some — Cartwright,  you  know- 
She  nodded.     Evidently  she  did  not  think  so  ill 
of  Cartwright. 

"Philip  Cartwright,"  she  commented,  and  in  her 
tone  of  brusque  decisiveness  it  would  have  been 
hard  for  him  to  find  a  compliment  for  himself 
if  he  had  searched  for  it,  "is  a  desirable  young 
man.  Frances  attracted  him.  She  attracts  every 
man  who  sees  her.  Oh,  you've  had  a  plenty  and  to 
spare  of  rivals !  But  Philip  studied  things  out 
carefully.  He's  got  his  way  to  make  as  a  young 
lawyer.  The  fight  will  be  uphill  and  he  knows 
that.  He  doesn't  want  to  tie  a  ton  wrapped  up  in 
lace  and  ruffles  to  his  neck  to  hold  him  back." 
"I  don't  believe  you  mean  one-half  of  the  hard 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  31 

things  you  say  about  her,"  Richard  answered,  smil- 
ing. 

"Oh,  no;  I  don't,"  she  granted,  "but  she  makes 
me  nervous  and  I  feel  that  it's  my  duty  to  inform 
you  of  my  fears." 

"You've  not  failed,  then,  in  your  duty." 

"I've  tried  not  to.  Well,  Philip  talked  the 
matter  over  with  me.  In  fact,  he  came  to  me 
about  as  you  did,  only  he  had  not  asked  Frances 
first,  so  far  as  I  know.  No;  I'm  sure  he  hadn't. 
He  was  very  much  in  doubt.  In  love  all  right;  oh, 
yes;  he  was  in  love;  but — he  had  sense.  He  came 
to  me  and  talked  things  over  with  me  and  I  told 
him  just  exactly  what  I  have  told  you  a  hundred 
times. 

"But  she  never  would  hav^frnarnet^him.  The 
girl  loves  you  as  much  as  she  loves  anyone  but  her- 
self. And  there  are  things  about  her  mind  and 
soul  that  are  as  pretty  as  her  face,  and  that  is 
speaking  with  some  emphasis." 

"It  is,"  he  fervently  agreed. 

"But  she  has  no  idea  of  the  value  of  money,  and 
that  makes  her  selfish;  folks  with  no  idea  of  the 
value  of  money  always  are.  She  doesn't  know  it 
is  the  hardest  thing  to  get  in  all  the  world,  the 
hardest  thing  to  keep  in  all  the  world,  that  it  will 
not  buy  happiness,  but  that  a  lack  of  it  will  almost 
certainly  bring  misery,  or,  anyway,  discomfort.  I 
warn  you  frankly,  Richard,  when  the  time  comes 
that  she  has  the  opportunity,  if  you  should  ever 
let  it  come,  she'll  bankrupt  you  without  a  moment's 
hesitation  or  without  a  moment's  thought  or 
realization." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT 


He  smiled.  "She  won't  bankrupt  me,  I'm  doing 
pretty  well." 

"I  hope  you'll  keep  on  -doing  well,"  and  no  one 
could  doubt  her  absolute  sincerity.  Then,  after  a 
long  pause:  "No;  you  hadn't  any  rival  in  Phil 
Cartwright  after  I  had  told  him  a  few  things." 

He  did  not  feel  that  this  left  him  much  ground 
for  real  conceit. 

The  door  opened  softly  and  admitted  Frances. 
Richard,  who  had  been  about  to  give  a  smiling 
answer  to  his  fiancee's  aunt's  warnings,  quite  for- 
got it.  The  woman  whom  he  loved  was  very 
beautiful  as  she  stood  there,  a-thrill  with  curiosity, 
if  not  anxiety.  Her  eyes  had  in  them  a  delightful 
sparkle;  her  perfect  girlish  figure  was  as  graceful 
and  as  beautifully  tense  as  the  sad  artist,  no  doubt, 
had  imagined  his  glass-eyed  deer  to  be;  her  red, 
delightful  lips  were  parted  temptingly.  He  looked 
at  her  with  adoring  admiration.  Aunt  Gretchen 
watched  them  keenly. 

"He's  forgotten  every  blessed  word  I've  said  to 
him,"  she  told  herself,  and  shut  her  lips  together 
tightly. 

"Richard?"  Frances  breathed. 

"Yes,  he's  asked  me,"  said  her  aunt,  "and  I  have 
given  my  consent,  of  course.  It  wouldn't  stop  you 
if  I  didn't,  and  I  don't  want  to  stop  you,  anyway. 
I  hope,  though,  that  he  will  be  able  to  convince 
you- 

"That  I  am  a  foolish  spendthrift,"  Frances 
answered,  smiling.  The  fact  that  she  was  soon  to 
marry  gave  her  a  certain  bravery  in  speaking  to 
her  aunt.  She  would  soon  have  someone  else  to 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  33 

ask  when  she  wanted  money.  "I  know  just  what 
you've  said  to  him.  But  he  won't  let  that  make 
him  stop  loving  me.  Will  you,  Richard?" 

"I  am  very  happy,  very  lucky,  very  grateful," 
he  replied,  and  beamed  on  both  of  them. 


CHAPTER  II 

Aunt  Gretchen  watched  things  during  the  period 
of  the  engagement  with  a  good  deal  of  anxiety. 
She  wondered  if  her  niece,  having  learned  to  love, 
might  not  learn  also  to  consider  the  best  interests 
of  him  she  loved;  but  she  did  not  find  a  thing  which 
satisfied  her. 

Summer  came  and  there  was  quite  the  usual 
wrangle  with  the  girls  as  to  their  outfits  for  the 
shore-resort  to  which  she  sent  them  for  a  few 
weeks  annually.  She  herself  rarely  left  town. 
Frances  rose  early,  one  day,  to  despairingly  discuss 
this  matter  while  her  aunt  ate  breakfast. 

"But,  Aunt  Gretchen,"  she  pouted,  uwe  must 
have  something  to  wear." 

"It  needn't  be  made  of  hemstitched  greenbacks, 
need  it?" 

"But—" 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking  of.  You're 
planning  to  give  me  a  long  list  of  all  the  silly 
things  the  silly  girls  you  know  who  happen  to  be 
going  there  are  having  made  to  wear.  Well, 
you've  got  just  as  good." 

"I've  only  got  eight  dresses  to  my  name !"  Clar- 
ice pouted. 

"Half  the  time  you  will  be  in  your  bathing-suit. 
You  always  are.  How  you  can — " 

"That's  not  a  dress." 

"No,"  said  Aunt  Gretchen,  quite  emphatically 


THE  SPEND  THRIFT  3  5 

coinciding.  "I  should  think  it  wasn't.  It's  about 
one-tenth  of  one.  But  I  see  there  is  a  bill  of 
thirty  dollars  for  it  from — " 

"And  we  haven't  any  hats,  or  shoes,  or  stock- 
ings, or — " 

"I  guess  you  won't  be  sun-struck  or  stone- 
bruised.  There's  three  trunks  packed  pretty  full, 
upstairs." 

The  clock  struck  eight,  now,  and  she  departed 
most  abruptly.  There  was  almost  always  a  deep, 
worried  frown  upon  her  face  when  she  went  from 
the  house  of  mornings  nowadays.  Sometimes  it 
lasted  till  she  reached  the  little  glass-partitioned 
office  where  her  roll-top  desk  stood  on  the  second 
floor  of  a  bank  building  in^TKe^-heart  of  the 
financial  district.  There  it  always  disappeared 
though.  When  folk  came  to  her  for  money,  there, 
they  came  with  the  collateral  to  borrow  on. 

"I  almost  feel  as  if  I'd  rather  stay  at  home,  this 
summer,"  Frances  sobbed,  in  conversation  with 
her  sister. 

"Everyone  would  guess  just  why  we  did  if  we 
should  do  it,"  Clare  replied.  "I  think  the  whole 
world  knows  how  she  dislikes  to  spend  her  money. 
One  of  the  girls  told  me  her  father  said  she  had 
the  reputation  of  being  the  best  business  woman 
in  New  York!" 

"The  best  business  woman!"  Frances  sniffed, 
scornfully.  "It  isn't  business  for  young  women  to 
go  looking  like  plain  frumps." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  her  younger  sister  asked. 
"Not  that  they  don't  attract  attention !"  She  pre- 
tended to  gaze  at  her  aghast.  "You  don't  want 


36  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

attention  from  anyone  but  Richard,  do  you?  He'd 
think  you  were  lovely  in  a  coffee-sack  with  corn- 
husk  trimmings.  But  with  me  it's  different.  I'm 
not  settled  yet,  as  you  are.  I  think  it  is  too  mean 
for  her  to  act  the  way  she  does  about  a  few  cheap 
summer  gowns." 

"When  I  told  her,  late  last  night,  that  Richard 
and  myself  had  settled  on  the  day,"  said  Frances, 
"she  positively  sniffed.  'I  suppose  you'll  want  a 
lot  of  money  for  your  outfit,  won't  you?'  That 
was  nearly  all  she  said." 

"You  said  you  would,  didn't  you?"  asked  Clare. 

"I  didn't  say  exactly  that,  but  I  said  I  didn't 
think  she'd  want  me  to  get  married  without  any 
clothes." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  laughed  and  said  she  didn't.  That  I'd  be 
arrested  if  I  tried  it  and  she  didn't  think  there 
was  a  particle  of  danger  that  either  you  or  I  would 
ever  be  arrested  on  such  grounds  as  that." 

"She'd  be  delighted,  I  believe,"  said  Clare,  who 
really  felt  very  bitter  about  her  summer  ward- 
robe. 

When  four  o'clock  came  and  the  business  of  the 
day  was  over,  the  object  of  their  criticism,  deep 
in  thought,  sat  back  in  her  swivel  chair,  down  in 
her  little  office.  The  girls  had  been  especially 
annoying  in  their  importunities  for  what  she 
thought  was  much  more  money  than  was  right  for 
them  to  spend.  She  felt  a  sense  of  stern  responsi- 
bility regarding  them,  which  had  increased,  and 
not  diminished,  since  Frances  and  Richard  Ward 
had  settled  upon  marriage.  She  reached  for  the 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  37 

desk  telephone,  at  length,  and  gave  the  operator 
Richard's  number. 

"Hello,  hello,"  said  she,  when  his  voice  came  on 
the  wire  to  her.  "Stop  in  to  see  me  at  my  office  on 
your  way  uptown." 

"All  right;  I  shall  be  glad  to." 

"You  won't  be  glad  to  hear  what  I  am  going  to 
say  to  you,"  she  thought,  after  she  had  hung  up 
the  receiver.  "You  have  never  been  and  I  have 
said  it  half-a-dozen  times.  I'm  worried  about 
you." 

It  was  not  long  before  he  entered. 

"You  look  worried,"  were  her  first  words  after 
she  had  looked  him  over. 

"No,  but  I'm  a  little  fagge< 

"Trying  to  crowd  up  the  earnings  as  a  pre- 
paration?" she  said,  smiling  grimly.  "Well,  you'll 
need  to.  I  wonder  if  I  don't  talk  of  this  sort  of 
thing  too  much  to  you." 

"You've,  warned  me  more  than  once,"  he 
granted. 

"It  worries  me.  You're  certain,  are  you,  that 
you're  going  to  be  happy?  You're  sure  you're 
going  to  be  satisfied?  Wouldn't  care  to  have  a 
wife  who'd  mend  your  clothes,  if  you  went  broke, 
would  you?'" 

"You  wrong  her,"  he  said,  somewhat  hotly. 
"Frances  would  do  all  that  anyone  would  do  if 
there  was  really  reason  for  it." 

"What  could  she  do?  She  doesn't  know  how 
in  the  world  to  do  a  thing.  Do  you  think  she  could 
cook  a  breakfast?  Well,  she  might,  for  I  tried 
hard  enough  to  make  her  learn  before  she  got 


38  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

too  old  to  make  do  things.  But  I  really  don't  be- 
lieve that  after  she  had  cooked  it  you  would  eat 
it." 

"I'd  eat  it,  if  she  cooked  it  and  used  powdered 
glass  as  flavoring,"  he  answered. 

She  sniffed.  "I  ought  to  know  it,"  she  admitted. 
"I  don't  know  just  why  I  asked  you  to  come  in — 
except  that  I  am  worried  more  than  I  can  tell  you 
over  the  whole  thing.  I  wish  I  could  re-make  the 
girl." 

"I  dont  want  her  re-made." 

She  took  from  her  desk  a  paper  she  had  brought 
from  home.  "I  want  to  have  you  go  into  the 
thing,  at  least,  with  your  eyes  open,"  she  said  grim- 
ly. "Here's  a  list  of  what  the  girls  thought  they 
must  have  to  carry  with  them  to  the  seashore. 
Read  it  carefully.  I  don't  know  that  the  figures  at 
the  right  are  correct.  I  marked  them  in  and  I 
don't  always  know  about  the  cost  of  such  things; 
but  I'll  warrant  they  are  not  too  high.  I  never 
guess  within  a  good  fifteen  per  cent,  of  what  their 
things  are  going  to  cost." 

He  glanced  at  the  paper  casually,  amused  as 
always,  by  the  good  rich  woman's  tense  distress 
about  her  nieces'  taste  for  luxury.  "It  doesn't 
scare  me  very  much — the  figures  do  not.  Some 
of  the  things  they  stand  for  ought  to,  I  suppose, 
and  would,  if  I  knew  what  they  were." 

She  threw  back  her  head  and  laughed.  "How 
soon  would  they  forgive  me  if  they  thought  I  had 
shown  you  that  list?  But  while  it's  silly,  it's  im- 
portant, too.  It  shows  you  what  to  expect." 

"I  do  expect  it,  and  I  glory  in  it,"  he  replied. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  39 

"I'm  making  money  and  each  year  I'm  making 
more." 

"Suppose  some  year  you  shouldn't." 

"Don't  prophesy  such  things." 

"I'm  not  making  prophecies.  But  a  good  busi- 
ness man  or  woman  must  suppose  such  things,  so 
as  to  be  quite  ready  for  them  if  they  come." 

"I  hope  they'll  never  come,  in  my  case." 

"So  do  I;  but  just  suppose  they  should.  Sup- 
pose you  went  to  Frances,  one  fine  morning,  after 
you  are  married,  and  announced  to  her  that  you 
would  have  to  move  to  some  little  flat.  Well!" 
She  laughed  again,  now  at  a  mental  picture  of  the 
scene,  but  it  was  not  a  pleasant  laugh  this  time. 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "you  see  I  absolutely_have  un- 
bounded faith  in  her.  She'd  rise,  I  know,  to  meet 
the  situation.  You  think  she  wouldn't.  That  is 
where  we  differ." 

"No;  I'm  not  sure  she  wouldn't,"  said  the 
shrewd  old  woman.  "There  have  been  cases 
where  humanity  has  turned  out  better  than  I 
thought  it  would;  there  have  been.  Few;  but  still 
there  have  been  cases.  It  may  be  that  you're  lucky. 
She  surely  is." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

She  chuckled.  "Lucky  to  get  you.  Oh,  yes; 
I  mean  just  that.  I  was  afraid  she  mightn't  be  so 
fortunate.  That  Thorne  man,  or  Phil  Cart- 
wright—" 

"Phil  is  my  closest  friend  and  a  fine  fellow." 

"Matrimony  would  have  failed,  with  them,  in 
something  under  thirty  days.  He'd  be  too  hard 
on  her.  You'll  be  too  easy." 


40  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"I'll  do  all  I  can  to  make  her  happy." 

"Don't  make  yourself  unhappy!" 

"If  I  make  her  happy,  that,  alone,  will  make  me 
happy." 

She  looked  at  him  steadily  and  thoughtfully. 
"Well,"  she  said  at  length,  "it's  you  that's  marry- 
ing her.  Don't  let  her  make  a  fool  of  you.  I  was 
worried  about  Thome." 

"I  can't  believe  that  such  a  girl  as  Frances  could 
be  tempted  by  a  man  like  Suffern  Thorne." 

"Girls  run  after  him  until  they're  out  of  breath." 

"Her  kind  doesn't  run  after  him." 

"Why  not  her  kind  ?  He  has  plenty  of  the  thing 
she  seems  to  care  for  most." 

"Yes;  his  great-grandfather  was  a  pirate,  I  am 
told.  He  told  me." 

"Yes;  he'd  be  the  one  to  tell  you."  She  smiled 
grimly.  "He  don't  realize  that  folks  see  through 
him — or  don't  care.  I  guess  don't  care.  Heredity. 
Sins  of  the  fathers  doubled  in,  not  merely  visited 
upon  the  child." 

He  laughed  again.  "Oh,  he's  not  a  pirate.  He 
doesn't  have  to  be.  The  pirate  got  the  money,  so 
he  doesn't  need  to  rob." 

"Pirate?  Certainly  he  is,"  said  she.  "Worst 
kind.  Kidd  was  a  Wanamaker  alongside  of  him. 
Kidd  killed  for  money,  and  his  victims  stayed 
dead.  Suffern  Thorne  kills  with  it,  and  his  victims 
live,  squirming,  agonized  by  colic  of  the  spirit." 

"He  is  unspeakable.    A  cad." 

"Other  things  than  money  can  be  got  by  piracy. 
There  is  such  a  thing  as  making  souls  walk  planks. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  41 

That's  his  kind  of  piracy.  I'm  glad  he  didn't 
capture  Frances." 

"Do  you  really  think  there  ever  was  a  chance 
that—"  ' 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  her 
eyes.  She  knew  the  talk  already  had  made  him 
most  uncomfortable,  and  she  did  not  wish  to  make 
him  desperately  so;  but  she  was  anxious  that  he 
should  be  warned,  prepared.  She  thought  the 
girl's,  as  well  as  his  own  happiness,  might  possibly 
depend  on  it. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  told  him,  therefore,  although 
she  had  believed,  at  one  time,  that  Frances  might 
be  fascinated  by  Thorne.  "No,  I  don't  suppose 
she  ever  seriously  thought  of  marr^ing^him.  His 
father's  reputation  was  dead-black  and  he's  dipped 
it  in  jet  dye  for  his  own  wear.  He  never  made 
the  girl's  heart  flutter  for  a  second,  I  am  sure  of 
that ;  but  he  has  a  great  fortune,  and — money — " 

"You  just  said  that  she  was  not  attracted  by  it." 

"No,  young  man,"  she  snapped  back  at  him. 
"I  didn't  say  his  money  didn't  make  her  mouth 
water.  What  I  said,  or  meant  to  say,  was  that 
even  that  could  not  make  her  feel  willing  to  be  tied 
to  him.  Don't  you  get  a  notion,  Richard,  that  I 
want  to  abuse  Frances.  I  love  Frances.  But  the 
girl  has  faults  that  worry  me,  and — I  like  you." 

The  announcement  of  the  engagement  came  a 
little  before  the  departure  for  the  seashore,  and 
in  their  immediate  and  small  circle  created  a  good 
deal  of  talk.  On  'Change  the  morning  that  the 
news  was  printed  Suffern  Thorne  was  almost  first 
to  go  to  Richard  with  congratulations. 


42  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"My  dear  Ward,"  he  said,  with  his  lack-lustre 
drawl,  "I  wonder  if  you  know  what  an  extremely 
lucky  dog  you  are?" 

Richard  did  not  like  the  man;  for  quite  a  year 
he  had  avoided  him  whenever  possible.  "Yes," 
said  he,  "I  know  quite  well." 

On  Thome's  face  was  the  crafty  little  smile 
which  always  nagged  the  physically  stronger  and 
more  genuine  man  to  wrath.  "And  you've  hit 
the  market  lately,  regularly,  too.  What  an  envi- 
able life  yours  is!  May  I  congratulate  you?" 

"Thanks;  certainly,"  said  Richard,  and,  feeling 
nettled,  rather  than  pleased,  at  the  episode, 
strolled  off  toward  the  N.  Y.  C.  post,  where  his 
business  was.  He  did  not  see  Thorne  as  he  stood 
looking  after  him,  but  he  was  conscious  that  he 
did  stand  looking  after  him,  and  the  knowledge 
filled  him  with  a  tendency  toward  fury  which  he 
carefully  suppressed. 

A  fellow  broker,  noting  the  man's  attitude  and 
little  smile,  stepped  up  to  him. 

"Has  the  naughty,  sharp  young  Thorne  been 
pricking  Dicky  boy  upon  the  day  when  all  thorns 
should  be  hid  and  only  roses  show?"  he  asked. 
"His  face  indicates  that  your  congratulations — I 
suppose  you  did  congratulate  him — were  as  sooth- 
ing as  a  yellow-jacket  up  his  sleeve." 

Thorne  did  not  change  his  smile  but  protested 
with  his  hands.  His  hands  were  rarely  wholly 
quiet  when  he  talked.  "Yes;  I  congratulated  him," 
he  said.  "Lucky;  don't  you  think  he  is?  Hope 
he  won't  come  any  croppers  on  the  market." 

"Ward,"  the  friend  said  later,  confidentially  to 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  43 

Dick,  "Thome's  got  his  knife  out  for  you,  sharp 
and  a  yard  long.  If  you  feel  a  quick  pain  in  your 
bank-account  you'll  know  he's  stuck  it  into  it.  He's 
going  to  try  to  stab  your  safe-deposit  box.  He's 
got  it  in  for  you  a  good  and  plenty  and  that's 
where  he'll  attack,  of  course.  Keep  your  weather- 
eye  peeled,  Dicky  boy;  don't  let  him  catch  you 
taking  forty  winks." 

Ward  laughed.  It  filled  his  soul  with  real  ela- 
tion to  be  conscious  that  he  had  defeated  Suffern 
Thorne.  And  if  he  had  defeated  him  in  one  thing 
—the  biggest  thing — he  felt  that  he  had  little 
cause  to  fear  that  the  strange,  sallow,  minutely 
groomed  young  millionaire,  half-worn  out  already 
by  the  wild  excesses  of  his  youth,  couTcTbe^a  victor 
in  the  other.  He  felt  sure,  however,  that  the  man 
would  try  to  trick  him  on  the  market. 

He  was  much  amused  when  he  saw  Frances  a 
few  days  before  she  was  to  start  for  the  seashore 
with  her  sister.  She  looked  positively  doleful. 

"You  look  as  if  you  might  be  going  to  a  ship- 
wreck, not  a  shore  hotel,"  said  he.  "You  are 
mistaken.  It  is  not  to  be  a  funeral;  it's  to  be  a 
*  »  pleasure-trip." 

"Pleasure-trip!"  said  Frances,  with  as  near  ap- 
proach to  bitterness  as  her  somewhat  indolent 
nature  could  permit. 

"What's  the  trouble?"  he  inquired,  a  bit  im- 
pressed. 

But,  although  she  evidently  was  tempted  to  con- 
fide in  him,  she  did  not. 

She  talked  the  matter  over  that  night  with 
Clarice,  however,  and  between  them,  they  planned 


44  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

out  a  course  of  action  which  they  thought  might 
win  with  their  Aunt  Gretchen. 

"He'd  be  perfectly  delighted  to  give  her  back 
the  money,"  Clarice  said,  nodding  with  approval. 

"And  she  might  let  us  have  it  if  she  knew  it  to 
be  nothing  but  a  loan — if  she  knew  she'd  surely 
have  it  back  again,"  said  Frances. 

"It's  too  awful — the  way  she  clutches  her  old 
money!  One  would  think  she  feared  the  poor- 
house." 

"Aunt  Gretchen,"  Frances  said  the  next  day 
after  dinner  with  that  singularly  innocent,  wide- 
eyed  expression  which  always  meant  that  she  was 
about  to  ask  for  money,  "we're  just  too  awfully 
ashamed,  Clarice  and  I,  to  go  off  looking  as  we 
are.  We  haven't  half  things  enough — really  we 
haven't.  But  we've  been  worried  about  asking 
you,  because  it  didn't  seem  quite  right,  you  know. 
We've  cost  you  so  much  money — " 

Aunt  Gretchen  sniffed.  She  saw  that  something 
worse  than  usual  was  impending.  She  waited  for 
a  moment  with  a  calm  face,  though,  for  what  it 
might  be.  But  as  Frances  hesitated,  wondering  how 
best  to  word  the  interesting  suggestion  she  had 
figured  out,  she  became  impatient. 

"Well,"  she  said,  at  length,  "don't  stand  there 
trying  to  make  it  seem  like  reason.  You  can't  do 
it.  Get  it  off  your  mind  and  mine." 

"Well,  Clarice  and  I — we  are  so  worried — and 
yet  we  don't  feel  that  we  ought  to  ask  you  for  any 
more;  we — " 

'Who  else,  for  heaven's  sake,  would  you  ask, 
but  me?" 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  45 

"Well,  there's  Dick—" 

This  came  as  an  absolute  surprise,  even  to  Aunt 
Gretchen.  It  had  not  once  occurred  to  her  that 
Frances  could  be  thinking  of  advance  drafts  on 
her  future  husband. 

"Yes,"  she  snorted.  "Do  it.  It'll  warn  him  of 
what's  coming.  Do  it,  Frances,  do  it." 

Frances  was  nonplussed. 

"That  wasn't  what  I  meant,  Aunt  Gretchen," 
she  said,  on  the  defensive.  "What  I  meant  was 
that,  perhaps — oh,  we  know  how  hard  you've 
worked  to  get  together  all  your  money  and  that  we 
have  been  a  drain  on  you — but  still  you  do  lend 
money.  I  thought  perhaps  yoVcllerid~we  some, 
and  then — " 

She  smiled  with  a  triumphant  air,  as  if  by  acute 
reasoning  she  had  discovered  a  fine  way  out  of  a 
difficulty. 

"And  then,  after  we  are  married,  I'll  tell  Dick, 
and  he — he'll  pay  you  back  again!  You  see  it 
wouldn't  cost  you  anything  whatever.  Would  it? 
I'm  sure  he  would  be  glad  to  do  it,  and  be  grateful 
to  you." 

Aunt  Gretchen  threw  her  hands  up  in  despair. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Frances!"  she  exclaimed. 
"Have  you  the  least  idea  of  what  you  are  propos- 
ing? Don't  you  see  that  you  are  actually  trying 
to  induce  me  to  steal  Richard's  money?  Have 
you  no  sense  of  honesty,  at  all?  He's  not  planning 
to  marry  debts  as  well  as  you !" 

"He  wouldn't  mind,  at  all;  I'm  sure  he 
wouldn't." 

"No;  he  wouldn't — not  at  first,"  her  aunt  re- 


46  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

plied.  "He'd  laugh.  He's  easy  going  with  you — 
too  easy.  And  he'd  pay  me  back  the  money.  But 
I'd  be  criminal  to  do  it.  I  would  be  burdening  him 
with  an  indebtedness  of  which  he  would  know 
nothing  until  after  it  was  made,  and  I  would  be 
doing  you  great  harm.  Such  things  would  spoil 
your  married  life — they'd  spoil  it  from  the  start. 
Why,  Frances,  can't  you  even  see  that  it  would 
be  dishonorable?" 

The  bosom  of  the  lovely  girl,  whose  cheeks  al- 
ready had  flushed  pink  with  the  excitement,  began 
to  heave  beneath  the  lace  of  the  light  negligee 
which  covered  it,  and  she  burst  into  tears.  And,  as 
she  wept  convulsively,  she  was  lovelier  than  when 
she  smiled. 

But  if  the  strong  appeal  of  her  young  beauty  in 
the  least  affected  her  aunt's  heart,  she  did  not  show 
a  sign  of  it.  She  merely  looked  at  her,  without 
comment  on  her  grief,  but  with  a  queer  expression 
of  puzzled  disapproval  on  her  face. 

"Frances,"  she  said  at  length,  "if  you  don't 
learn  that  money  costs — costs  more  than  anything 
else  can,  possibly — and  that,  because  it  costs,  it 
must  be  valued,  and  very  highly  valued,  you  are 
going  to  have  a  very  miserable  life.  I  know  where 
you  got  your  silliness — your  father  was  just  like 
you,  except  not  so  selfish.  He  handled  recklessly 
the  foolish  little  sums  he  earned  by  painting  silly 
pictures  for  your  mother  at  the  start,  although 
she  did  not  like  to  have  him  do  it,  and  then  for 
you  and  your  sister.  He  borrowed  money  that  he 
had  no  right  to  borrow.  But  he  did  not  spend  it 
on  himself.  He  had  no  business  to  take  other 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  47 

people's  money  for  any  purpose  whatsoever,  but 
he  did  it,  thinking  that  by  doing  it  he  could  make 
you  people  happier.  There  was  good  in  him, 
though,  for  he  never  took  it  for  himself.  He 
didn't  care  how  hard  his  life  might  be,  so  long 
as  yours  was  easy.  You're  worse  than  he  was, 
for  all  your  scheming  is  for — Frances.  You're 
selfish,  Frances — utterly,  and  viciously.  Try  to 
break  yourself  of  it  before  you  marry.  It  will 
make  you  and  the  man  you  marry  miserable." 

But  the  only  thing  which  made  appeal  to  Frances 
was  that  her  aunt  would  not  combine  with  her  in 
the  fine  bit  of  financiering  she  Irad^planned.  She 
merely  thought  she  was  afraid  she  would  not  get 
the  money  back. 

"I  know  he  wouldn't  mind,"  she  sobbed. 

Her  aunt  looked  at  her  with  exasperation.  "Oh, 
you're  hopeless !"  she  said  wearily.  "Quite  hope- 
less !  You  don't  understand,  at  all.  You'll  learn, 
some  day,  but  you  will  learn  in  a  much  harder 
school  than  that  I'm  trying  to  teach." 

Frances  turned  and  fled  back  to  her  sister. 

"She  wouldn't  even  think  of  it,"  she  sobbed, 
when  she  was  in  the  room  with  her,  the  door 
locked  tight  upon  their  disappointment.  "She 
wouldn't  even  think  of  doing  it,  and  she  said  that 
I'd  make  Richard  miserable!" 

"It  seems  to  me  that  she's  the  one  who  makes 
folks  miserable,"  Clarice  said  viciously.  "When 
Monty  started  raving  over  her,  the  other  evening, 
I  just  shut  him  up.  I  told  him  that  he'd  better  try 
to  live  with  her  before  he  felt  so  certain  that  she 
was  so  great." 


48  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

After  the  girls  had  gone  to  the  seashore  resort, 
Gretchen  Jans  called  Richard  up  by  telephone 
again,  and  asked  him  to  stop  in  to  see  her  at  her 
office  as  he  went  uptown.  He  was  elated,  that 
day,  by  the  favorable  result  of  a  financial  skirmish, 
in  which  he  thought  his  opponent  had  probably 
been  Suffern  Thorne,  although  his  real  identity  had 
been  masked  with  utmost  care. 

"I'll  be  a  little  late,"  he  said,  "but  I'll  be 
there." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  late?" 

"It  will  be  after  four  before  I  get  there." 

"Late !  Four !  I  never  leave  my  office  until 
six  o'clock." 

He  smiled,  as  he  turned  from  the  telephone. 

When  he  found  her,  at  half-after-four,  she  sat 
before  her  desk  in  idleness  unwonted.  Her  hands 
were  even  folded  on  her  ample  lap.  He  was 
astonished. 

"I  have  never  seen  you  in  your  office  in  repose 
before,"  said  he. 

"Repose?"  said  she.  "Repose?  Why,  Richard, 
I  have  never  been  much  farther  from  repose  in  all 
my  life!  It  isn't  often  anything  upsets  me  till  I 
have  to  lay  aside  my  work." 

"No,"  he  granted,  "I  should  imagine  not." 

"Not  often,"  she  repeated.  "But,  Richard,  I 
am  afraid  you're  going  to  have  a  dog's  time  of  it." 

He  flinched.  Could  she  have  some  exclusive  bit 
of  Wall  Street  news  which  had  not  come  to  him? 
Could  it  be  possible  that  his  opponents  had  some- 
thing secretly  in  pickle  which  would  cost  him  dear? 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  49 

If  she  was  worried  by  what  was  impending  for  him, 
then  it  must  be  serious,  indeed! 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"Oh,  Frances,"  she  said  solemnly. 

The  reaction  was  complete  and  instantaneous. 
He  had  no  doubts  or  worries  about  Frances.  He 
knew  and  was  amused  by  the  continual  warfare 
which  was  going  on  between  her  and  her  aunt,  but 
he  was  not  impressed  with  the  belief  that  in  it 
there  lay  any  real  significance  for  him. 

"Some  new  bit  of  extravagance?"  he  asked. 
"Has  she  asked  for  a  new  pair  of  shoes?" 

"Richard,"  she  said  slowiyT^M&e— you.  I 
think  I've  told  you  so,  before.  And  I  love 
Frances.  I  have  told  you  that  before.  But  I  am 
afraid  the  girl — is  a  spendthrift,  Richard." 

"Well,  I'm  going  to,  have  enough  fine  thrift  for 
two — so  let  her  spend." 

"You  are  in  love  and  don't  see  straight." 

"I  certainly  am  very  much  in  love." 

"I  know  it,  and  it  makes  me  find  excuses  for 
you.  /  didn't  see  straight,  when  I  was  in  love." 

"Were  you  ever  really  in  love,  Aunt  Gretchen?" 

She  flushed,  and  he  had  never  seen  her  flush  be- 
fore. It  quite  surprised  him  and  it  drove  his 
bantering  smile  away. 

"In  love?  Why,  Richard,  I  was  married — and 
in  those  old  days  marriage  meant — well,  what  it 
doesn't  seem  to,  any  more." 

"And  there  weren't  any  children." 

"And  there  weren't  any  children,  but  the  little 
one  who  died.  That,  I  think,  more  than  my 
husband's  death,  although  I  loved  him,  Richard — 


50  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

oh,  I  loved  him! — was  what  has  spoiled  my  life 
for  me." 

"Most  women  wouldn't  think  their  lives  spoiled, 
if  they  were  as  rich  as  you  are.  You  are  some- 
times called  the  richest  woman  in  America." 

"The  richest?  Poor — one  of  the  very  poorest. 
For  years — for  many  years  my  life  has  been  a  life 
of  poverty — of  poverty  so  far  as  that  one  thing 
which  really  counts  most,  goes — love.  That,  really, 
is  everything — unselfish,  -sacrificing  love — your 
own  for  somebody,  and  somebody  for  you.  Un- 
selfish, sacrificing  love.  It  isn't  really  worth  while 
unless  it  is  those  things — unselfish  and  self- 
sacrificing." 

He  was  wholly  sobered,  very  greatly  moved. 
He  had  never  seen  the  bustling,  practical  and  busy 
Gretchen  Jans  in  such  a  mood  as  this,  before.  He 
did  not  see  her  long  thus,  this  time. 

"In  a  way  it's  that  that  made  me  ask  you  to  stop 
in,"  said  she.  "You  want  to  be  most  careful  about 
money,  Richard,  with  poor  Frances.  She  has 
queer,  crooked  notions  about  money." 

"Crooked!" 

"I  don't  mean  that  she's  a  thief,  exactly;  but — 
well,  listen  to  this  proposition  which  she  made  to 
me:  She  wanted  me  to  give  her  money  to  buy  a 
lot  of  useless  and  unnecessary  summer  furbelows 
for  her  and  Clarice.  She  didn't  ask  me,  out  and 
out,  to  buy  them — I  suppose  she  knew  it  wouldn't 
work — but  she  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  lend  her 
money  so  that  she  could  buy  them.  And  she  said 
I'd  get  my  money  back,  all  right,  if  I  would  only 
lend  it  to  her.  She  said  if  I  would  lend  it  to  her 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  51 

you  would  pay  me  after  you  were  married!" 

He  laughed,  and  it  was  not  a  laugh  devised  to 
hide  a  worry  or  a  mortification,  as  she  had  expected 
it  might  be.  It  was  a  hearty,  whole-souled  laugh, 
of  real  amusement. 

"She  wished  to  borrow  money  of  you  and 
promised  that  I'd  pay  it  back  as  soon  as  we  are 
married?  Well,  why  didn't  you  arrange  the  loan? 
I  would  have,  with  good  interest." 

She  looked  at  him  with  disapproving  eyes  and 
shook  her  head.  "Well,  Richard,"  she  said  slow- 
ly, "you  are  certainly  a  fool." 


CHAPTER  III 

The  summer  seemed  almost  unreal  to  Richard — 
so  much  had  come  into  his  life,  so  much  had  gone 
out  of  it.  It  was  with  real  sadness  that  he  ac- 
knowledged to  himself  that,  since  his  engagement, 
the  friendship  between  him  and  his  old  bunkie 
Philip  Cartwright,  in  the  pleasant,  old-fashioned, 
somewhat  grimy  bachelor  quarters  diagonally 
across  the  Square  from  the  sedate  and  solemnly 
old-fashioned  house  of  Gretchen  Jans  had  slowly 
cooled.  One  night  he  spoke  of  this,  with  some- 
thing of  complaint  in  voice  and  manner. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  lately,  Phil?"  he 
asked.  "I  sometimes  think  you're  changed  toward 


me." 


Cartwright  was  a  man  of  few  words  meaning 
much,  who  was  rapidly  achieving  eminence  in  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  law.  He  never  made  pretensions. 
What  he  said,  that  you  could  depend  upon.  Some- 
times he  said  much  more  than  one  would  wish  him 
to,  for,  despite  his  choice  of  a  profession,  he  was 
truthful — startlingly  so,  sometimes. 

"No,  I  haven't  changed  toward  you,"  he 
answered  now.  He  had  very  little  facial  play  and 
never  made  a  gesture  when  in  conversation,  but 
his  eyes,  to  his  best  friends,  sometimes  conveyed  a 
little  that  his  words  did  not.  Now  they  evaded 
Richard's.  He  looked  too  much  at  their  worn  old 
rugs  during  recent  conversations  to  please  his 
friend. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  53 

"And  you're  not  sore  at  me?"  said  Ward. 

"No,  I'm  not  sore  at  you." 

"Is  it  that  you  don't  approve  of  my — er — 
marriage?  You're  such  a  close-mouthed  chap — 
even  with — " 

"It's  your  marriage,  isn't  it?" 

Ward  flushed  a  little  angrily.  ".You  ought  to 
be  a  little  interested." 

"I  didn't  say  I  wasn't.  But — I'm  naturally 
sorry  to  have  this  combination  broken.  I  shall  be 
lonely  here  without  you,  Dick." 

"Ah  I  And  that's  what  broke  you  up  so !  But — 
you  don't  like  her." 

"I  guess  I'm  not  a  ladies'  man.  I  guess  I 
wasn't  cut  out  for  a  cavalier." 

"Why  do  you  think  that?" 

"Observation." 

"Go  into  details.'1 

"You'd  get  mad." 

"No  I  wouldn't." 

"Well,  it  seems  to  me  that  women  must  have 
changed.  Perhaps  it's  because  I  came  here  from 
the  country.  Maybe  they  haven't  changed,  out 
there.  But  they  think  a  lot  about  the  pie-crust, 
here,  and  how  it  looks — not  on  the  kitchen-table, 
they  never  see  it  there,  but  in  the  baker's  window — 
and  they  don't  think  much  about  what's  inside  the 
pie." 

"They  seem  superficial?" 

"Pretty  foamy,  Dick." 

"You  mean  Frances  is?" 

"There;  you're  getting  personal.     I  wasn't  talk- 


54  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

ing  personalities.  It's  late,  anyhow,  and  I'm  go- 
ing out." 

Richard  looked  at  him  with  keen  exasperation. 

"If  you  disapprove  of  her  why  don't  you  say 
so?" 

"I  didn't  say  I  disapproved  of  her." 

"I  know  you  didn't  but  you  might  as  well  admit 
it." 

"No;  I'm  not  going  to  admit  it.    I'm  a  lawyer." 

Ward's  exasperation  grew.  In  the  old  days, 
until  indeed,  he  had  been  fascinated  by  the  charm- 
ing girl  across  the  square,  he  had  found  Cart- 
wright's  reticence  restful,  his  abrupt  speech,  when 
it  came,  amusing,  his  calm  views  of  life  delightful 
and  his  analyses  shrewd  and  penetrating.  Now 
he  found  him  aggravating  beyond  words.  If  the 
man  had  ever  even  offered  him  congratulations, 
even  such  as  he  might  know  were  utterly  conven- 
tional, mere  tributes  to  politeness,  it  would  have 
been  far  less  annoying,  it  would  even  have  been 
less  aggravating  if  he  had  openly  reproached  him 
for  deserting  him;  but  he  had  simply  grown  more 
silent.  Once  or  twice  Richard  had  discerned  upon 
his  face  a  detail  of  expression  which,  had  he  been 
sure  of  it,  would  have  torn  up  their  friendship,  in 
spite  of  its  firm  rootage — once  or  twice  he  had 
surprised  a  look  in  Cartwright's  eyes  which  seemed 
to  be  compassionate. 

'Don't  you  dare  to  pity  me!"  he  cried  now,  in 
wrath  at  memory  of  that  look. 

"For  what?" 

"Because  I'm  going  to  marry  her.'* 

"Why,  I  was  congratulating  you." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  55 

"You  said  that,  but — " 

"Why  pity?" 

Ward  found  it  quite  impossible  to  answer  this, 
so  let  the  conversation  drop;  but  it  was  one  of 
many,  each  of  which  put  a  small  wedge  into  the 
rift  in  their  old,  closely-cemented  friendship. 

A  little  later  Richard  voiced  complaint  again,  or 
rather,  continued  the  same  voicing  of  the  same 
complaint  after  an  interval  of  silence.  "Even  that 
young  ass,  Monty,  says  you  don't  approve  of  her." 

"You  admit  that  he's  an  ass." 

"Monty's  shrewd,  even  if  he  is  a  freshman." 

"Then  why  call  him  a  young  ass?  But  he  must 
have  been  when  he  said  such  a  thing  as  that." 

"Phil,  you're  impossible." 

"That's  what  the  ladies  think." 

A  light  burst  upon  Ward.  "So  that's  it,  eh?" 
he  cried,  much  pleased.  "She  turned  you  down,  eh, 
and  you  never  mentioned  it  to  me !" 

"She  didn't  turn  me  down." 

But  from  that  time  on  Richard  found  some  satis- 
faction in  a  mental  murmur  of  "sour  grapes" 
whenever  Philip  did  not  seem  to  quite  approve  of 
his  rhapsodic  eulogies  of  Frances.  It  was  rather 
hard  on  him  to  have  his  chum  throw  water,  too — 
Aunt  Gretchen  threw  enough.  They  both  seemed 
to  think  the  girl  was  criminal,  he  angrily  told 
himself,  because  of  her  exceeding  and  delightful 
femininity.  She  was  more  feminine  than  other 
girls.  That,  he  swore,  was  why  he  loved  her  so. 
He  reflected,  with  some  satisfaction,  upon  the  odds 
against  which  he  had  won  her  and  did  not  refrain 
from  mentioning  this  to  his  friend,  whose  state- 


56  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

ment  that  he  had  not  once  aspired  to  Frances  he 
refused  to  credit. 

"Queer  field  I  ran  against — you  and  young  skull- 
and-crossbones." 

"Who's  young  skull-and-crossbones  ?•" 

"Suffern  Thorne." 

"In  the  running,  was  he?" 

"Yes;  he  was  another  of  your  rivals.  You 
ought  to  like  him  now,  if  misery  not  only  loves  com- 
pany but  loves  the  company  itself." 

"I  wouldn't  want  to  have  a  closer  bond  than 
that  between  Suffern  Thorne  and  me.  I  was  sur- 
prised when  I  discovered  that  she  was  receiving 
him.  That  was  one  of  the  things  that — " 

"Made  you  leave  the  field  to  me?"  cried 
Richard,  now  almost  genuinely  angry.  "You  in- 
fernal ass,  have  you  any  notion  what  you're  say- 
ing?" 

'Not  at  all  what  you  would  make  out  that  I 


am." 


"It  would  be  a  pity  to  have  our  friendship  go  to 
smash,  now  wouldn't  it,  old  man?" 

"I  hope,"  said  Cartwright,  and  this  time  there 
was  a  real  ring  of  feeling  in  his  voice,  "that  noth- 
ing ever  will  do  that  to  us." 

Ward  as  he  prepared  to  go,  held  out  his  hand 
and  his  friend  grasped  it  warmly;  but,  all  the  same, 
both  men  were  conscious  that  things  never  could 
again  be  quite  as  they  once  had  been. 

"The  serpent's  in  our  Eden,"  Ward  said  as  he 
went. 

"Yes;  so  is  Eve,"  said  Cartwright. 

There  was  little  play  in  the  man's  face,  but  it 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  57 

twisted  after  Richard  had  gone  out,  his  eyes  were 
steady  when  he  looked  off  into  space,  as  was  his 
frequent  habit,  they  were  also  steady  when  he 
looked  straight  at  another's  eyes — frequently  so 
steady,  then,  that  the  person  whom  he  looked  at 
felt  uncomfortable;  but  now  they  were  neither 
very  steady  nor  so  very  calm.  He  looked  out  of 
the  window,  winking,  shifting  his  glance  constantly. 
A  woman  acting  thus  would  have  been  upon  the 
verge  of  tears. 

It  had  been  that  other  gaze  of  his,  that  steady, 
dry-eyed  gaze,  straight  and  unabashed  at  her  big 
eyes,  which  had  most  annoyed  Frances  during  the 
few  moments  when  they  had,  by  chance  from  time 
to  time,  been  left  alone  together.  If  there  had 
been  things  about  the  girl  which  had  annoyed  him 
and  made  him  certain  that  he  did  not  care  to  marry, 
there  certainly  were  things  about  the  man  which 
bothered  her  and  made  her  certain  that  she  did  not 
care  to  marry  him. 

"The  serpent's  in  our  Eden,"  he  repeated  slow- 
ly to  himself,  full  of  regret  at  the  plain  signs  of 
waning  comradeship  between  him  and  his  friend. 
And  then:  "By  Jove,  the  serpent's  Eve,  herself! 
I've  nearly  made  a  joke." 

He  almost  chuckled  for  a  moment,  then  his 
gravity  returned. 

Over  at  the  thrifty  home  of  Gretchen  Jans, 
Ward  sat  waiting,  with  what  patience  he  could 
summon,  for  the  coming  of  the  woman  whom  he 
loved.  Clarice,  for  a  short  time,  had  talked  to 
him,  but  when  she  found  that  he  had  not  had  re- 
cent word  from  Monty,  disappeared.  He  found 


58  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

the  room  extremely  tiresome.  He  was  not  en- 
thusiastic as  a  student  of  antiquities.  The  ancient 
horse-hair-cloth  furniture  repelled  him  and  he 
could  fully  sympathize  with  Frances'  hatred  of 
it;  the  grim  oil-paintings  on  the  walls  distressed 
him  as  he  knew  they  did  the  girl.  Everything  was 
elegant,  expensive,  but  it  was  so  very  old,  so  very 
solid.  Much  money  had  undoubtedly  been  spent 
on  outfitting  this  house,  but  everywhere  there  was 
apparent  the  large  fact  that  everywhere  there  had 
been  ample  value  given  for  the  money.  He  re- 
called, as  he  sat  thinking  this,  an  exasperated  word 
or  two  of  Frances'.  "They  used  to  wear  horse- 
hair-shirts on  their  own  backs,  to  make  their  bodies 
suffer,"  she  had  ventured,  in  one  of  her  rare  jokes, 
"but  aunt,  instead,  puts  them  upon  her  furniture 
to  mortify  her  nieces'  souls.  This  pricks  mine 
through  my  shirt-waist." 

"I  don't  wonder  that  she  wants  to  get  away," 
he  told  himself,  and  smiled  at  thinking  of  an  early 
wedding.  "Aunt  Gretchen  is  all  right;  but  she 
doesn't  understand  her." 

When  Frances  came  to  him,  she  plainly  had  been 
crying.  Richard  was  all  sympathy,  at  once. 
"What's  troubling  you,  my  dear?"  he  said. 
"What's  troubling  you?  Can  I  do  something  to 
alleviate  the  woe?" 

"I'm  so  worried  over  all  the  wedding  matter," 
she  admitted,  coming  to  him  with  that  child-like 
surrender,  that  complete  and  charming  confidence 
which  delighted  him.  "Aunt  Gretchen  is  so  funny  I 
We  disagree  about  the  last  small  detail." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  59 

"I  wish  it  were  the  groom's  part  to  provide  the 
wedding." 

"Dick,  I  wish  it  were.  I  really  wish  it  were. 
You'd  do  it  as  it  should  be  done,  while  she — I  shall 
be  positively  ashamed  to  have  our  friends  come 
here  and  see  it.  I  told  aunt  that  this  whole  floor 
ought  to  be  re-done  and  she  just  laughed  at  me." 

"  'But,'  I  said,  'I  only  shall  be  married  once'." 

"  'I  hope  that  will  be  all,'  she  answered,  'and 
it  won't  take  over  twenty  minutes.' ' 

"  'All  the  more  reason,'  I  replied,  'that  the  place 
should  make  a  quick  and  good  impression  on  the 
guests'." 

"  'Frances,'  she  answered,  and  when  she  says 
'Frances'  that  way,  I  know  I  might  as  well  stop 
talking,  'they'll  be  here  possibly  an  hour.  If  they 
don't  like  my  home  they  won't  have  long  to  bear 
the  pain;  if  I  did  it  over  as  you'd  like  to  have  it, 
I'd  have  to  suffer  in  it  for  the  balance  of  my  life'." 

"I  wish  we  might  slip  out  and  have  a  quiet  little 
wedding  by  ourselves,"  said  Richard,  somewhat 
hotly  siding  with  his  bride-elect.  Afterwards, 
when  he  thought  the  matter  calmly  over,  he  could 
see  Aunt  Gretchen's  point  of  view  quite  plainly. 
The  old  drawing-rooms  were  very  elegant  and 
rich,  even  if  they  were  undeniably  old-fashioned. 
He  did  not  blame  her  quite  so  vividly  when  he 
remembered  that  she  doubtless  loved  them  as  they 
were.  But  now,  before  he  had  considered  these 
things  carefully,  while,  instead  of  thinking  of  them 
he  had  his  eyes  and  thoughts  upon  the  somewhat 
petulant  but  very  lovely,  tear-stained  face  before 


60  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

him,  he  only  said  again :  "I  wish  we  might  slip  out 
and  have  a  quiet  wedding  by  ourselves." 

"I  wish  so,  too,"  said  Frances. 

"Well,  why  couldn't  we?" 

"An — an  elopement?" 

"Anything  you  like." 

"I'm  just  certain  that  even  my  wedding-gown, 
if  we  go  through  the  wedding  as  she  would  like 
to  have  me,  will  be  something  I  won't  like."  This 
was  unjust  and  she  well  knew  it,  but  she  was  ex- 
cited. 

"Well,  think  the  other  over.  If  you  want  to 
have  it,  it  could  be  arranged." 

"Do  you  think  she'd  be  so  very  angry?"  The 
girl  had,  in  her  heart,  a  wholesome  fear  of  her 
firm  aunt;  perhaps  there  was  a  deep  affection,  also; 
but  if  there  was  the  latter  it  was  very  deep — well 
hidden. 

"I  don't  see  why  she  should  be.  It  would  save 
her  endless  bother." 

"And  save  me  humiliation.  Dick — we'll  do  it. 
We  will  do  it  just  whenever  you  may  say  the  word." 

"I'll  say  it  soon,  then." 

"It  sometimes  seems  to  me  as  if  I  couldn't  get 
away  from  here  too  soon!" 

"Is  it  because  you  want  to  get  away  or  because 
you  want  to  come  to  me?" 

She  snuggled  to  him  charmingly.  "Because  I 
want  to  go  to  you,  of  course.  If  you  only  knew 
how  many  millions  I'd  refused  so  as  to  go  to  you  !" 

He  smiled.  He  knew  she  was  referring,  now, 
to  Suffern  Thorne  and  his  unsuccessful  suit. 

"Surely  I  ought  to  be  quite  willing  to  make  plans, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  61 

then,  for  the  daintiest  and  most  delightful,  up-to- 
date  elopement  that  a  maiden  ever  heard  about," 
he  said. 

"I  really  believe  she  just  deserves  it."  Frances 
showed  upon  her  face  a  charming  look  of  earnest- 
ness and  firm  conviction,  in  her  voice  the  emphasis 
while  firm  was  quite  delightful.  It  was  as  if  she 
spoke  about  some  erring  child  who  had  earned 
punishment  which  she  was  now  compelled  against 
her  will  solemnly  to  administer.  "I  do  believe  she 
actually  deserves  it — and  it  will  save  her  such  a 
lot  of  money!  That  ought  to  make  her  glad!" 

"She  doesn't  think  she's  stingy;  she  thinks  you 
are  extravagant,"  said  Richard,  smiling  at  her,  as 
he  did  so,  with  that  look  of  whimsical,  admiring 
affection  in  his  eyes  which  made  her  certain,  and 
which  he  wished  should  make  her  certain,  that  he 
would  do  anything  she  asked,  be  it  extravagant  or 
not. 

The  thought  of  an  elopement  made  a  strong 
appeal  to  her.  It  might  make  her  aunt  sorry  that 
she  had  not  coincided  with  her  rather  wildly 
ornate  wedding-plans.  And  it  would,  undoubted- 
ly, hasten  the  day  when  she  would  be  free  of 
domination  and,  instead  of  being  ruled,  would  rule. 

"It  would  look  better  in  the  papers,  too,"  said 
she.  "I'd  rather  have  them  say  that  Miss  Van 
Zandt  was  married  in  Hoboken  in  a  motor-costume 
than  to  have  them  say  that  she  was  married  in  this 
stuffy  house,  at  seven  a.  m.,  in  calico  or  hair-cloth." 

Ward  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed.  "It 
wouldn't  be  as  bad  as  that,  would  it?"  There  was 
in  his  fine  eyes  the  look  of  fond  indulgence  which 


62  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

an  uncle  often,  and  a  father  sometimes,  saves 
for  a  spoiled  child. 

"Why,  it's  perfectly  absurd,"  said  Frances,  with 
more  of  her  charming  earnestness  and  emphasis. 
"She  acts  as  if  she  never  thought  she'd  have 
another  penny  in  the  world!  It  actually  shocked 
her  when  I  said  my  train  should  be  four  yards  and 
that  there  ought  to  be  two  pages  to  walk  with  it." 

Ward  had  not  a  very  clear  idea  about  wedding- 
dresses.  "Do  they  really  have  them  that  long?" 

"Longer!" 

"Then,  if  anyone  has  ever  had  one  longer,  it 
would  be  absurd  for  you  to  have  one  shorter,"  he 
agreed,  with  mock  solemnity. 

"That's  precisely  what  I  told  her.  I  said  we 
owed  it  to  your  place  in  life  if  to  nothing  else.  I 
said  it  wouldn't  be  the  proper  thing  for  you — mind 
you;  I  wasn't  thinking  of  myself  at  #//,  I  was  think- 
ing of  you,  Dick — for  me  to  have  a  train  a  single 
half-inch  shorter  than  the  one  that  Wilcox  girl  wore 
when  she  married  the  old  prince." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  laughed.  Then  I  told  her  that  it  seemed  to 
me  as  if  her  own  pride  would  demand  that  when 
I  left  her  house,  I  left  it  looking  as  a  bride  should 
look,  not  like  a  fright  and  frump." 

"And  her  reply  to  that?" 

"She  said  she  sometimes  felt  as  if  she  might  be 
lucky  to  have  me  leave  her  house  at  all,  no  matter 
how  I  looked." 

Now  Ward  laughed  with  a  complete  abandon, 
"That  must  have  wholly  crushed  you." 

"No;  not  at  all.    Why  should  it?    I  was  simply 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  63 

trying  to  convince  her  that  it  is  worth  while  to  pay 
a  little  heed  to  what  the  balance  of  the  world  may 
say." 

"Well,  you  make  the  plans  for  the  elopement. 
That  will  save  the  whole  confounded  nuisance." 

"I'd  much  rather  elope  anywhere  than  have  a 
wedding  that  looked  cheap." 

The  plans  were  made  with  utmost  care  and 
secrecy.  Only  Clarice  was  told  the  details,  and 
she,  Philip  Cartwright  and  Monty,  were  the  only 
guests  invited.  Ward,  in  a  limousine,  picked 
Frances  up  at  a  street  corner  in  the  shopping  dis- 
trict, and  they  whirled  thence  toward  the  parsonage 
he  had  selected. 

"Not  wishing  to  back  out,  are  you,  and  have  a 
really  truly  wedding,  after  all?" 

"No,  Dicky  dear,"  she  said  decisively  her 
hands  clasped  upon  his  arm  in  the  dainty  clinging 
way  she  had.  "The  thought  of  being  married  at 
Aunt  Gretchen's  as  she  wished  to  have  me  married 
there,  was  positively  terrible.  Really  I  never 
should  expect  to  have  a  moment's  brightness  in  a 
married  life  that  had  begun  among  that  hair-cloth." 

"You  shall  have  a  drawing-room  of  cloth-of- 
gold  when  we  build  our  house — and  I  imagine  we 
can  build  it  before  so  many  years  have  passed,  if 
things  continue  to  go  well." 

"I  am  50  glad!  It  will  be  a  relief  to  have  things 
as  I  want  them — as  we  want  them,  darling — once 
in  my  life." 

"As  far  as  in  me  lies  I  shall  see  to  it  that  you 
have  them  as  you  want  them  for  the  balance  of 
your  born  and  blessed  days." 


64  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

It  was  not  exactly  usual — that  elopement. 
Richard  had  seen  to  it  that  the  clergyman's  wife 
dressed  up  their  drawing-room  with  much  elabora- 
tion and  with  many  flowers.  As  he  was  a  fashion- 
able clergyman — not  unwilling,  possibly,  to  do  a 
little  thing  like  this  which  might  annoy  Aunt 
Gretchen,  for  she  did  not  give  as  liberally  as  he 
thought  she  might  to  some  of  his  pet  charities — 
and  as  the  parsonage  was  quite  palatial,  and,  last- 
ly and  most  importantly,  as  Richard's  check-book 
had  been  open  to  whatever  calls  might  come  to  it, 
the  scene,  as  the  small  wedding-party  entered,  was 
beautiful  in  the  extreme. 

Frances  gave  a  gasp  of  sheer,  sensuous  delight, 
and,  with  the  gasp,  drew  in  a  breath  of  perfume 
from  rare  flowers — the  very  rarest  in  the  market, 

"How  lovely!"  she  exclaimed,  and  Richard  felt 
that  he  had  been  sufficiently  rewarded  for  the  care 
he  had  expended  on  the  manifold  arrangements. 

"I  do  hope  dear  Mrs.  Jans  will  not  be  angry," 
said  the  clergyman's  smart  wife,  and,  by  her  smile, 
showed  that  she  really  rather  hoped  she  would  be 
frantic  to  the  verge  of  mania.  "But  we  have  tried 
to  make  it  just  as  pretty,  in  a  simple  way  as  we 
could  manage."  She  said  nothing  about  Richard's 
check-book. 

"It  is  beautiful!"  said  Frances,  smiling,  for  it 
certainly  was  very  charming.  "Don't  you  think  so, 
Mr.  Cartwright?" 

"It  seems  to  be  about  the  thing,"  he  granted, 
with  active,  interested  eyes  wandering  about,  ob- 
serving every  detail,  but  with  lips  closed  tightly, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  65 

for  the  most  part.  "Everything  that  could  be 
seems  to  be  here." 

He  was  wondering  about  his  old  friend's  future. 
Would  it  be  a  happy  one?  Would  it?  He  knew 
little  about  women  but — it  was  most  unusual  for 
this  quiet,  forceful  man  to  make  a  gesture,  but 
now  unconsciously  he  waved  one  hand  as  if  to 
thrust  away  from  him  the  doubts  that  crowded  on 
him  constantly  about  the  wisdom  of  his  friend's 
selection  of  a  helpmeet. 

The  clergyman  was  late;  but  when  he  came  he 
brought  in  smiles  enough  and  honeyed  words 
enough,  polite  and  fitting  jokes  enough,  to  make 
up  for  his  tardiness — and  he  used  them  all. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Philip  should  stand 
sponsor  for  the  bride,  and  he  was  ready  for  the 
task,  but  when  the  clergyman  asked,  with  his  care- 
fully trained  voice  pitched  to  a  carefully  trained 
tremolo:  "Who  giveth  this  woman  to  this  man?" 
an  unexpected  voice  spoke  from  the  doorway  be- 
fore Philip's  slow  lips  had  a  chance  to  speak. 

"I  do,"  said  Aunt  Gretchen.  "I  do.  I  give 
her  to  you  Richard — give  her  to  you  gladly  and  I 
wish  you  joy.  I  love  her,  Richard,  and  I  wish  you 
joy  of  your  elopment.  I  heard  about  it  yesterday 
but  thought  I  wouldn't  mention  it.  I'm  late  but 
I  had  some  things  to  do  before  I  could  get  uptown. 
I'm  a  very  busy  woman." 

In  the  carriage,  as  they  drove  from  parsonage 
to  railway  station,  Richard  suddenly  burst  into 
laughter. 


66  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Frances  looked  at  him  fondly,  smilingly,  inquir- 
ingly. "What  is  it,  Dickie  dear?"  she  asked. 

"Why — er — the  elopment,"  he  replied.  "The 
elaborate  elopment  from  Aunt  Gretchen.  It  didn't 
— er — elope  so  very  well,  did  it?" 

"Not  from  Aunt  Gretchen,  no  dear;  but  from 
the  hair-cloth  furniture,  it  did.  I'm  sure  I  never 
could  have  married  you,  at  all,  with  all  that  hair- 
cloth furniture  around." 

"I  could  have  married  you  in  a  bare  desert  with 
the  sky  gone  from  overhead,  or  in  a  den  of  gnomes 
and  furies." 

"Could  you?  I  don't  like  to  think  about  such 
things.  .  .  .  I'm — I'm  glad  we're  not  to  go  to 
such  a  very  fashionable  place,  at  first;  I've  got  to 
get  some  clothes.  Aunt  Gretchen  was  so — " 

"Get  all  the  clothes  you  want,  sweetheart." 

"You  darling!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

The  first  few  months  of  married  life  were  very 
sweet  to  Richard  Ward.  He  assured  himself  that 
even  his  best  dreams  were  quite  surpassed  by  the 
exceeding  joy  of  the  reality.  To  go  home  in  the 
afternoon  to  Frances,  in  the  handsome  flat  upon 
the  Park's  west  side,  and  find  her  waiting  for  him, 
smiling,  welcoming,  was  a  delicious  joy  which, 
possibly,  his  too  sedately  earnest  years  of  unremit- 
ting drudgery  to  build  a  fortune,  and  the  dull 
monochrome  of  his  long  residence  with  Philip 
Cartwright  in  their  dingy  bachelor  rooms  upon 
Washington  Square,  South, — the  nearest  he  had 
known  before  to  home,  since  early  boyhood — made 
more  delightful  than  it  would  have  been  to  most 
men.  He  could  find  no  flaw  at  any  point,  when  he 
examined  his  existence  in  occasional  revery. 

"Happy?"  he  said  to  Cartwright,  when  one 
evening  they  met  at  the  club,  an  institution  which 
he  seldom  visited  of  late.  "Why  man,  I  didn't  know 
what  the  word  meant,  in  the  old  days !" 

"No?"  said  Cartwright,  gravely.  "Glad,  old 
man." 

"There's  only  one  thing  mars  it,"  Richard  went 
on  impulsively. 

"What's  that?" 

"It  seems  to  have  badly  hurt  our  friendship." 

"We're  always  friends.    Nothing  could  do  that." 

"It  has,  at  least,  cut  our  association  down  to  the 


68  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

few  evenings  I  can  spend  here  at  the  club.  You 
never  come  to  see  us,  Phil." 

"I  guess  I  am  a  stay-at-home,  and — " 

"And  what?" 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  exactly." 

"Sometimes  it  seems  to  me  that  even  yet,  you 
don't  approve  of  Frances." 

"It's  not  for  me — she's  your  wife,  Dick." 

"Oh,  I  know;  we're  beating  around  the  bush.  I 
mean  that,  somehow,  you  seem  really  to  dislike 
her,  be  very  critical  of  her,  all  that  sort  of  thing. 
I  see  you  look  around  the  place,  when  you  do  come 
to  see  us,  at  all  the  pretty  things  with  which  she 
has  surrounded  us,  and  then  I  see  you  try  to  hide 
that  old  expression  of  quiet  criticism  which  used  to 
drive  me  crazy  when  I  came  home  to  our  rooms 
with  some  new  brand  of  smoking.  You  wouldn't 
say  that  you  thought  your  old  'Lone  Jack'  was  its 
superior,  but,  as  you  smoked  a  pipe-full  of  my  'find' 
you'd  have  that  funny  little  look  of  secret  knowl- 
edge on  your  face.  It  was  nothing  but  God's 
mercy,  once  or  twice,  that  kept  me  from  knocking 
out  your  brains  with  the  tobacco-jar." 

"Superior?    Not  I." 

"No;  I  guess  you  don't  feel  superior.  But  the 
trouble  is,  you  never  make  mistakes.  It's  hard  on 
us  who  do  to  watch  you  and  feel  conscious  of  that 
calm  survey  which  you  are  giving  us  from  your 
mistakeless  height." 

Cartwright  looked  at  him  after  a  slow  swing 
upward  of  his  eyes,  which  had  been  studying  the 
carpet.  Always  slow,  deliberate,  conservative, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  69 

his  movements  were — even  the  movements  of  his 
eyes. 

"Maybe  I'm  the  one  that's  most  mistaken,"  he 
said  at  length. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  how?"  Ward  asked,  in  sur- 
prise. "Tell  me,  without  waiting.  If  you'll  only 
give  me  one  real  chance  to  gloat,  I  will  forgive 
you  for  the  thousand  times  you've  had  the  chance 
— and  haven't  taken  it.  That's  another  trouble 
with  you,  Phil — you  never  take  the  chance  to  gloat, 
though  all  the  rest  of  us  know,  perfectly,  you  ought 
to,  and  though  you  let  us  know  that  it  is  time  to 
know  you  ought  to.  Understand?  Involved,  but 
true.  You  might  be  less  infuriating  if  you  gloated 
good  and  hard  occasionally." 

"Infuriating?    Am  I  that?" 

"Intensely,  viciously.  It  sometimes  rises  to  the 
height  of  real  depravity — a  negative,  inactive,  im- 
personal depravity,  which,  when  you  come  to  ana- 
lyze it,  is  not  wrong  but  right." 

Cartwright  let  his  head  go  back  against  the  high 
puffed-leather  of  the  chair.  Then  he  laughed  a 
little — cautiously,  conservatively. 

"A  sort  of  holy  sin." 

"No ;  not  that,  at  all.  I  wonder  what  the  words 
are.  Inoffensive  insult?  Not  at  all.  That  puts 
it  backwards.  What  I  mean  to  say  is  that  you 
voice  approval,  but  know,  even  as  you  voice  it, 
that  your  approval,  really,  is  full  of  criticism." 

"You're  still  mixed,  Dick.  If  I  should  put  a 
case  to  any  jury  with  this  queer  lucidity  of  yours 
I'd  not  look  for  a  verdict." 

"No;  I  know  it,  but — you  like  us,  but  you  don't 


70  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

approve.  I  feel  it,  often,  and  Frances — she  feels 
it  all  the  time." 

Phil  looked  at  him  quickly — very  quickly  for 
Phil  Cartwright.  "Does  she?  I'm  sorry." 

"Then  you  admit  it." 

"No;  I  don't  admit  it." 

Ward  rose  and  gave  his  friend  a  look,  half-quiz- 
zical, half-helpless.  "I'm  due  back  at  the  flat. 
Phil,  you  don't  know  what  it  means  to  have  a  home 
to  be  due  at." 

"Why  go?  Mrs.  Ward  will  not  be  home  for 
hours  yet."  He  glanced  upward  at  the  mantel-clock. 

Richard  looked  at  him,  surprised.  He  knew, 
perfectly,  that  Frances  would  be  late,  that  night. 
She  had  joined  an  opera-party  which  he  had,  him- 
self, abjured  in  order  to  enjoy  the  evening  with 
his  bachelor-days-pal,  but  he  had  not  mentioned  to 
him  that  she  would  be  late. 

"How  do  you  know  when  she'll  be  home?"  he 
asked. 

"I  don't  know." 

"But—" 

"I  only  guessed." 

Vaguely  uncomfortable,  Ward  sat  down  again. 
"You're  really  uncanny,"  he  said  discontentedly  as 
he  sank  back  into  the  chair.  "She's  at  the  opera, 
and,  for  a  fact,  will  not  be  home  for  hours." 

"I  thought  so.    Now — " 

"Tell  me  why  you  thought  so." 

"I  don't  know.     Now — " 

"Phil,  you're  a  queer  bird." 

"I  know  I  am.  I  was  going  to  ask  about  your 
business.  Doing  well,  are  you?" 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  71 

"Fine,  Phil;  fine,"  said  Ward,  his  face  lighting 
as  he  left  the  subject  of  his  friend's  queer  notions. 

"Glad.     Got  a  chance  for  you." 

"You  have?    What  is  it?" 

"I  can  double  twenty  thousand  for  you  within 
twenty  days." 

"If  you  say  you  can,  I  know  you  can.  When 
will  you  want  the  twenty  thou?" 

"Morning." 

" W-h-e-w !    I  don't  know  that  I  could  raise  it." 

"Why,  I've  heard  that  you've  been  making 
money  by  the  fist-full." 

"So  I  have,  Phil;  but  it  costs  to  live,  you  know." 

"Aren't  saving,  Dick?" 

Ward,  once  more,  felt  uncomfortable.  He  did 
not  wish  to  make  defense  of  his  expenditures.  He 
thought  he  saw  the  processes  of  Cartwright's  mind. 
When  they  had  lived  together  he  had  never  been 
a  spendthrift  and  the  man  was  now,  undoubtedly, 
surprised  to  find  that  he  was  short  of  funds  when 
business  had  been  good.  He  told  himself  a  little 
angrily  that  a  cold-blooded  creature  like  Phil  Cart- 
wright,  selfish  and  unsympathetic,  could  not  com- 
prehend a  warmer-blooded  man's  anxiety  to  make 
the  young  years  of  his  married  life  delightful  for 
the  woman  who  had  given  her  all  to  him,  by  plac- 
ing her  in  those  surroundings  which  most  pleased 
her,  by  giving  her  the  sort  of  life  she  most  desired 
to  lead. 

"Saving?"  he  said  then  almost  a  little  anrily. 
"No;  not  just  yet,  Phil.  It  costs  a  lot  to  start  in 
married  life,  you  know,  and  one  owes  something 
to  the  woman  who  entrusts  him  with  her  happiness. 


72  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Among  other  things  he  owes  that  happiness  to 
her.  If  she  trusts  to  him  to  furnish  it,  certainly  it 
is  his  duty  to  see  to  it  that  It  comes." 

"I  suppose  so,"  Cartwright  granted.  "But  I'm 
sorry  you  can't  take  this  chance.  It's  a  mere  cinch, 
and  if  you  don't  go  in  the  chance  will  go  to  Thorne. 
I  hate  to  see  him  get  it.  That  man's  a  fish  for 
warmth,  an  eel  for  squirming  into  good  things,  out 
of  bad  ones,  and  I  guess  he's  a  snake  too.  If  you 
don't  get  the  money  he  will.  Hell!" 

"What  is  the  deal?"  said  Philip,  somewhat  anx- 
iously. 

"I  can't  tell,  unless  you  can  go  in.  I  had  first 
chance  of  picking  the  fourth  party — there  are  two 
in  it  with  me;  but  under  seal  of  secrecy  in  case  I 
didn't  find  him  ready.  Now  that  you're  not  ready 
— why  the  chance  will  go  to  Thorne." 

Philip  took  a  long  breath,  slowly.  "Well — 
that's  how  it  stands,"  said  he.  "In  a  few  weeks — " 

"Be  ready  then?" 

"I  think  so." 

"Not  certain?" 

"Why — there  may  be  some  things  to  settle  up. 
As  I've  already  said,  it  costs  a  lot  to  start  in  life, 
you  know." 

"Does  it?" 

"Why,  certainly;  you  ought  to  know  it." 

"No,"  said  Cartwright,  "no.  I've  never  started 
life  the  way  you  mean." 

"Phil,  you'll  make  me  angry  if  I  stay  any  longer. 
I'll  be  going." 

"I  don't  want  to  make  you  angry." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  73 

"I  don't  want  to  get  angry.  So — good-night. 
I'm  mighty  sorry  I  can't  join  you  in  that  deal." 

"I'm  sorry,  too.  If  you  could  be  dead  certain 
you'd  be  ready  in  a  week  or  two — or,  say  a  month 
— I  might  be  able  to  hold  it  off.  I  am  not  sure." 

Ward  once  more  sank  back  into  the  easy-chair. 
For  two  minutes  he  was  deep  in  mental  calcula- 
tions. He  hated  very  much  to  lose  an  opportunity 
which  Philip  Cartwright  said  was  good,  for  if  he 
said  it  was,  it  was.  But  there  were  so  many  things 
to  pay  for!  As  he  had  said  to  him,  it  cost  a  lot 
to  start  in  married  life — how  much  he  had  not 
dreamed  until  he  had  embarked  on  the  experiment. 
He  racked  his  brains  to  think  of  some  way  whereby 
he  could  do  for  Frances  what  they  had,  in  many 
charming,  cuddling,  loving  hours  laid  plans  for, 
and  still  raise  the  twenty  thousand  dollars,  but  he 
could  not  find  a  way.  And,  he  told  himself,  he 
would  not  start  thus  early  at  disappointing  her. 
He  had  promised  her  the  things,  gowns  for  certain 
functions,  jewels  to  match  them  and  others,  an  elec- 
tric brougham,  oh,  a  hundred  things — and  he 
would  keep  his  promise,  but,  in  the  future,  he 
would  be  a  little  careful  not  to  let  his  promises  run 
quite  so  far  ahead.  He  must  surely  make  some 
allowance  for  the  possible  demands  of  unexpected 
business,  for  on  his  readiness  to  meet  them  might 
rest  greater  things  than  those  immediate  wants  of 
hers. 

"No,  old  man,"  he  said,  at  length.  "I'm  not 
dead  certain." 

"Too  bad,  Dick." 

"Oh,  wellj  there  will  be  other  chances." 


74  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Yes,"  said  Cartwright,  slowly,  and  so  plainly 
without  thought  of  offering  offense  that  Richard, 
although  he  looked  at  him  with  kindling  eyes  for 
a  brief  moment,  did  not  let  himself  get  angry, 
"there  will  always  be  the  chance — for  the  chap 
who's — ready." 

As  Richard  strolled  home  through  the  damp  and 
glittering  night  along  New  York's  most  famous 
Avenue,  he  thought  much  about  the  things  that  had 
transpired  of  late.  He  saw  clearly  that  he  must 
be  just  a  little  careful  about  Frances.  Undoubted- 
ly she  had  a  tendency  to  spend  a  little  more  than 
was  exactly  wise.  He  must  tell  her  all  about  this 
chance  which  had  been  offered  him  and  which  he 
could  not  take  advantage  of  because  they  had  been 
somewhat  lavish  in  their  way  of  starting  married 
life.  It  would  help  her  understand.  She  was  not 
avaricious,  but  the  bait  of  a  great  deal  of  money 
at  a  future  time  will  help  a  child  to  form  the  habit 
of  depositing  its  pennies  in  its  red-tin  savings-bank. 
It  would  help  her.  He  smiled  affectionately  as 
he  thought  of  her — she  was  a  child — a  dear, 
delightful,  loving,  thoughtless  child.  Sub-conscious- 
ly he  felt  that  Cartwright  had  been  critical  of  her 
that  evening.  Sub-consciously  he  always  had  that 
feeling,  nowadays  when  he  was  with  him.  It 
showed,  perhaps,  that  the  man  lacked  some  of  the 
finer  feelings  which  are  necessary  to  the  making  of 
a  perfect  man.  He  had  not  noticed  this  when  they 
had  lived  together — Cartwright  had  once  nursed 
him  through  an  illness  with  a  care  as  tender  as  a 
woman's,  but  it  must  be  true,  because  the  man  was 
surely  prejudiced  against  his  wife.  And  anyone 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  75 

who  felt  that  way  lacked  something.  Everyone 
with  any  sense  admired  her. 

Sometimes,  though,  he  almost  wished  that  this 
same  admiration  were  not  quite  so  universal. 
There  were  times  when  he  felt  fearful  that  she 
cared  almost  as  much  for  it  as  she  did  for  her 
home ;  but,  then,  the  girl  was  very  young.  He  was 
her  senior,  not  in  years  alone,  but  also  he  was 
more  staid  by  nature.  Society  did  not  especially 
appeal  to  him,  but  made  a  strong  appeal  to  her, 
he  knew.  That  was  a  detail  of  her  temperament 
and  when  they  had  been  married  he  had  under- 
stood it  perfectly.  He  had  no  reason  to  complain 
about  it  now — and  he  was  not  complaining.  He 
assured  himself  of  that  repeatedly  as  he  strolled  up 
the  Avenue  in  his  deep  revery. 

Then,  suddenly,  against  his  will,  he  asked  him- 
self the  question  which  he  had  felt  certain  Cart- 
wright  had  had  on  his  tongue's  tip  to  ask  a  half- 
a-dozen  times  that  evening.  For  some  reason  he 
had  refrained,  and  his  own  guess  at  the  reason  had 
been,  in  part,  the  cause  for  his  vague  annoyance 
with  him.  Had  married  life,  with  Frances,  at  the 
start,  proved  to  be  all  he  had  expected?  Had  she 
given  him  the  happiness  he  had  thought  would 
come  to  him  the  minute  he  could  claim  her  for  his 
very  own?  Had  he  found  anything  lacking  which 
he  had  craved  and  had  expected  would  be  part  of 
the  new  life? 

Realizing  that  these  inquiries  were  crowding  in 
his  brain  and  feeling  that  in  them  there  was  an 
undefined  disloyalty  to  her,  he  tried  to  put  them 
from  him,  but  they  were  persistently  recurrent.  It 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT 


might  be,  he  admitted,  finally  that  she  had  been  a 
bit  more  frivolous  than  he  had  thought  she  would 
be  after  the  great  interest  of  home  had  come  into 
her  life;  it  might  be  that  she  had  been,  sometimes, 
really  extravagant — had  spent  more,  even  than  his 
generosity  admitted  that  she  should  have  spent, 
and  his  generosity  was  and  had  been  bounded  only 
by  the  limit  of  his  resources;  it  might  be  that, 
sometimes,  she  had  seemed  lacking  in  that  sym- 
pathy for  which  his  deep  soul  yearned — that  inter- 
est in  what  he  did  and  what  he  hoped  to  do,  in 
those  ambitions  which  were  centred,  now,  in  get- 
ting everything  that  heart  could  wish  for  her.  Per- 
haps she  looked  at  the  results,  alone,  and  did  not 
stop  to  think  about  the  methods  that  achieved 
them,  did  not  quite  appreciate  the  vigor  and  the 
weariness  of  the  great  effort  they  required.  Per- 
haps she  had  not,  yet,  quite  entered  into  his  whole 
life  as  he  had  thought  she  would;  but — he  must 
give  her  time  I  He  told  himself  that  it  was  most 
unfair  of  him  to  look  for  an  old  head  upon  young 
shoulders — and,  having  found  this  phrase  he 
gloried  in  it. 

It  explained  all,  it  excused  all.  That  was  what 
he  had,  unconsciously,  been  doing;  that  was  what 
Cartwright  was  doing — looking  for  an  old  head  up- 
on young  shoulders.  Why,  she  was  but  a  girl! 
How  utterly  unfair  to  ask  of  her  maturity  of  judg- 
ment, sympathy,  deportment!  That  was  where 
Aunt  Gretchen  had  failed ! 

As  for  the  matter  of  expenditures — he  probably 
had  never  made  that  really  clear  to  her.  He  would 
explain  the  situation  to  her  when  she  came  home 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  77 

that  very  night — if  it  would  not  keep  him  up  too 
long.  Sometimes  she  was  quite  late  in  coming 
home — and  there  again  he  caught  himself  upon  the 
thin  verge  of  a  criticism  and  refused  to  harbor  it. 
She  was  not  later  than  the  average  young  matron 
of  society.  She  certainly  did  not  stay  longer  than 
her  friends  stayed — she  would  scarcely  stay  alone ! 
No,  the  fault  was  his,  or  rather,  there  was  not  a 
fault  at  all.  His  business  made  demands  on  him 
which  richer  men  who  had  no  business  were  not 
subjected  to.  He  had  to  be  on  hand  down  at  the 
office  in  the  morning  and  could  not,  of  course,  in 
consequence,  spend  the  whole  night  in  revelry  as 
they  did.  That  certainly  was  not  her  fault. 

It  really  was  her  misfortune,  for  he  felt  quite 
sure,  indeed  she  had  a  thousand  times  assured  him, 
that  she  liked  to  be  with  him  far  more  than  to  be 
with  anybody  else  in  all  the  world.  She  always 
begged  of  him  to  take  her  to  the  places  where  she 
went  so  often  and  he  almost  always  found  it  neces- 
sary to  tell  her  that  he  could  not.  He  felt  some- 
what elated  as  he  told  himself  that  he  had  done 
her,  without  knowing  it,  a  real  injustice.  There 
was  a  certain  pleasure  in  self-criticism  and,  for  al- 
most the  whole  balance  of  the  walk,  he  indulged  in 
it. 

Then,  for  some  reason  which  he  did  not  try  to 
find,  the  name  of  Suffern  Thorne  crept  back  into 
his  thoughts.  Phil  had  had  so  much  to  say  about 
him.  Of  all  the  men  he  knew  in  New  York  city, 
he  believed,  that  same  man,  Suffern  Thorne,  came 
nearest  to  being  utterly  despicable.  It  was  addi- 
tional annoyance  to  reflect  upon  the  fact  that  it 


78  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

would  be  Thorne  who  would  directly  profit  by  his 
own  inability  to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunity 
which  Cartwright  offered.  Thorne!  Nobody  re- 
spected him,  none  had  good  words  to  say  for  him, 
everywhere  he  was  the  one  man  most  universally 
criticised  and  then  condemned. 

But  even  those  who  criticised,  condemned  him, 
toadied  to  him  I  The  man,  undoubtedly,  had  some 
attractive  characteristics — in  society  he  was  invited 
everywhere.  His  money  opened  all  doors  to  him, 
his  reputation  closed  not  one  of  them.  It  made 
Ward  feel  a  brief  recurrence  of  his  younger  exulta- 
tion because  he  never  had  been  tempted  into  the 
entirely  idle,  sometimes  vicious,  life  of  the  New 
York  society  youth. 

This  for  a  moment  switched  his  thoughts  to 
Monty,  now  safely  housed  at  Harvard,  and  made 
him  hope  that  he  would  not  be  silly  that  way,  when 
his  time  came;  but  thoughts  of  Monty  did  not  hold 
him  long.  His  revery  went  back  to  Frances  and 
the  sort  of  life  which  she  had  chosen  for  herself. 
He  wondered  if  the  company  of  men  like  Thorne 
could  be  agreeable  to  her.  He  could  not  quite  be- 
lieve it  could,  because  he  knew  her  to  be  clean  of 
soul  and,  in  the  main,  quite  healthy-minded — much 
more  healthy-minded,  he  assured  himself,  than  the 
average  young  woman  of  New  York.  And,  when 
the  man  had  tried  to  marry  her,  she  had  without 
delay  refused  him. 

No;  he  need  not  worry.    He  was  sure  of  that. 

Still,  he  and  men  like  him  were  part  of  the  so- 
ciety which  so  engaged  her;  it  was  to  be  with  them 
and  the  women  they  attracted  and  who  attracted 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  79 

them — in  another  word  "society" — that  she  spent 
much  time  away  from  him;  it  was  to  please  them 
and  be  like  them  that  she  strained,  continually,  to 
do  things  which  ate  so  sadly  into  his  financial 
strength.  It  had  been  because  she  liked  them, 
wished  to  be  with  them  and  have  their  like  with  her 
that  he  had  been  unable  to  tell  Cartwright  that  he 
would  jump  at  the  offer  he  had  made.  This 
thought  shocked  Ward  a  bit.  Gad,  they  had  paid 
a  high  price,  he  and  Frances  had,  for  association 
with  the  crowd  she  went  with — Thorne  and  such. 

Well,  he  must  talk  it  over  with  her.  She  would 
see  things  differently  if  once  they  were  explained  to 
her.  He  had  been  at  fault,  himself,  for  having 
hesitated  about  this.  It  was  quite  true  that  he  had 
been  hesitant  for  no  reason  except  that  he  was  anx- 
ious not  to  pain  her — it  would  pain  her,  he  as- 
sured himself,  with  a  wry  face — but  the  surgeon 
gives  his  pain  through  kindness,  and  it  would  be 
kind  of  him  to  let  her  see  exactly  how  things  stood 
with  him,  with  them,  even  if  it  did  pain  her  a  little. 

He  was  almost  startled  when  a  car  drew  up 
close  by  the  curb  and  someone  in  it  called  his  name. 
He  turned  quickly  and  went  toward  it.  Aunt 
Gretchen  occupied  the  car. 

"I've  been  a  fool  among  a  lot  of  other  fools,  to- 
night, Richard,"  she  announced,  at  once.  "Been 
to  a  ball — a  charity  affair,  they  say.  Going  to  buy 
clothing  for  the  naked  Fiji  Islanders,  or  someone. 
If  they're  any  nakeder  than  some  who  danced  there 
at  that  ball  they  need  it." 

"Why,  Aunt  Gretchen,"  he  exclaimed.  "You, 
in  society?  I  didn't  know  you  ever  frivolled." 


8o  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Get  in,"  said  she.  "Get  in.  I've  had  a  chill 
since  I  first  saw  the  gowns  there  and  don't  like  to 
sit  here  with  this  door  open.  Get  in.  I'll  take  you 
home." 

"Delighted,"  he  said  gaily  and  climbed  in. 

"Go  to  the  Park,  James,"  said  Aunt  Gretchen 
through  the  speaking  tube. 

"I  thought  you  were  going  to  take  me  home." 

"Well,  I'm  saving  time  by  taking  you  first 
through  the  Park.  You're  in  no  hurry  to  go  home. 
Frances  won't  be  there  for  lord  knows  how  long. 
They  had  just  begun  to  dance  when  I  got  tired  and 
left.  They'll  be  at  it  hours." 

"Yes;  these  things  are  always  late  affairs." 

"Don't  go  much,  yourself,  do  you?" 

"No,  not  as  much,  I  guess,  as  I  should  go.  It 
makes  it  hard  for  Frances.  I've  been  thinking  of 
that  as  I  walked." 

"Didn't  seem  to  feel  as  if  it  was  too  hard  for 
her  to  bear  to-night.  Seemed  to  be  enjoying  life." 

"Well  that's  what  I  am  her  husband  for — to  see 
to  it  that  she  does  enjoy  life." 

"Oh,  that's  what  you're  her  husband  for,  is  it?" 
For  a  time  she  sat  in  silence,  while  he  waited,  half- 
amused  and  half-annoyed,  for  her  next  speech. 
"Keeps  you  busy,  doesn't  it?"  she  asked  at  length. 

He  laughed  at  her  and  she  smiled,  herself,  but 
soon  went  on.  "You're  her  husband  for  the  pur- 
pose of  seeing  to  it  that  she  enjoys  life.  There's 
another  question." 

"What  is  it?" 

"What's  she  your  wife  for,  Richard?  What  is 
she  your  wife  for?" 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  81 

"Same  purpose — seeing  to  it  that  her  husband 
enjoys  life." 

"And  does  she  do  it?" 

"Certainly.  She  doesn't  have  to  Mo*  it.  rAs 
long  as  I  succeed  she  will  succeed,  for  what  makes 
me  enjoy  life  best  is  seeing  her  enjoy  it." 

"Richard,"  she  said,  with  lips  which  closed  in- 
stantly and  tightly  after  she  had  said  it,  "you  some- 
times make  me  sick." 

The  motor  glided  through  the  Park  at  the  slow 
pace  which  Gretchen  Jans  had  trained  her  chauf- 
feur to^  The  mist,  which  had  been  almost  a  fine 
drizzle,  when  Ward  had  left  the  club,  had  cleared 
away.  At  times,  indeed  the  night  was  beautifully 
fine  now.  Inasmuch  as  his  companion  now  kept  si- 
lence, he  took  it  on  himself,  at  length,  to  start  the 
conversation  again. 

"The  Park  is  very  beautiful,"  he  said. 

"Humph!" 

"I  had  quite  forgotten  how  delightful  it  all  is." 

She  saw  a  little  opening.  "How  came  you  to 
forget?  Not  been  here  lately?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"You  know  why  not.    I've  been  too  busy." 

"Making  money?" 

"Making  money." 

There  was  another  silence.  This  time  she  broke 
it.  "By  the  way,  did  Cartwright  tell  you  that  there 
was  a  chance  for  you  to  do  some  really  big  busi- 
ness in  the  next  few  weeks?" 

"Yes;  how  did  you  know  of  it?" 


82  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"How  did  I  know  of  it?  Why,  I  told  him  to. 
Didn't  mention  that,  did  he?" 

"No,  I  had  not  the  least  idea — " 

"No;  I  told  him  not  to." 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  think  of  me." 

"Well,  going  to  do  it?" 

"N-no — I'm  sorry,  but  I  haven't  ready  money, 
just  this  minute,  and  he  said  it  couldn't  wait." 

"I  thought  you  wouldn't  have." 

"Why  did  you  think  that?" 

"A  half-wit  would  feel  sure  of  it  if  he  knew  how 
you're  going  on." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'going  on'  ?" 

"Richard,  as  I've  said  before,  you  make  me 
sick.  I  stopped  and  picked  you  up,  to-night,  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  feel  sure  you  understood  about 
that  chance  that  Cartwright  offered.  I  hoped  you 
would  be  ready  to  step  in  and  make  that  money. 
I  did,  Richard;  yes,  I  did.  I  hoped  so — but  I 
knew  that  I  was  hoping  against  hope.  Now,  what 
I  want  to  further  say  is  that  you'd  better  try  an- 
other tack.  You'll  get  to  port  a  good  deal  sooner 
if  you  do.  Next  time  a  chance  like  that  comes 
sailing  past,  you  have  the  rope  to  reach  it  with 
and  hitch  to  it.  Yes,  Richard,  have  the  rope  to 
reach  it  with." 

"I  certainly  shall  try." 

"Try!"  She  sniffed.  "Why  don't  you  say  you'll 
doit?" 

"It's  dangerous  to  make  a  reckless  statement  in 
a  talk  with  you,  Aunt  Gretchen.  You're  so  certain 
to  remember  it,  and,  later,  cite  it,  to  the  great  con- 


'  I    HOPED    YOU    WOULD    BE   HEADY   TO    STEP    IN    AND    MAKE   THAT   MONEY. 


Page  82. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  83 

fusion  of  the  man  who  made  it  if  he's  not  lived 
up  to  it." 

"Then  why  not  make  it  and  live  up  to  it?" 

"I  shall  try  to  live  up  to  it,  though  I  do  not 
make  it." 

"  'Try !'  I'll  tell  you,  Richard,  why  you  are 
afraid  to  come  out  flatly  with  the  statement  that 
you'll  have  the  money  when  the  next  chance  comes 
— you're  not  half  sure  that  Frances — mind  you, 
Frances;  I  know  her — will  let  you  keep  the  money 
out  of  circulation  for  the  purpose.  Frances  hates 
to  have  good  money  kept  from  circulation.  It's  a 
mania  with  her  to  keep  it  going — out." 

He  rose  to  the  defense  of  his  young  wife. 
"Well,  she  has  it,  now,  to  circulate." 

"I  suppose  that  is  a  hit  at  me.  I  glory  in  it, 
Richard;  yes,  I  glory  in  it.  She  has  it  now  to  cir- 
culate and  I  am  sure  she  circulates  it.  Well,  Rich- 
ard, I  can't  say  that  I  am  disappointed  in  you,  for 
you  were  so  much  in  love  I  knew  you'd  be  a  fool; 
out  if  you'll  think  things  over  there  is  hope  for 
you.  There  will  come  other  chances.  Be  ready, 
man,  to  meet  them.  Teach  Frances,  if  you  can, 
that  it  is  prettier  to  see  a  ship  come  in  with  a  good 
cargo  than  it  is  to  watch  one  sail  away  with  one — 
for  which  no  right  and  proper  value  has  been  left 
behind.  Teach  her,  Richard,  teach  her,  and  save 
yourself  a  lot  of  trouble,  later  on.  And  next  time 
you  be  ready  to  take  a  good  chance  when  it  hap- 
pens to  come  begging  you  to  make  some  easy 
money." 

He  could  not  but  grant  that  there  was  sense  in 
what  she  said — there  always  was  a  lot  of  sense  in 


84  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

everything  she  said — although  he  really  was  sorry 
that  she  knew  about  his  inability  to  put  his  finger 
upon  ready  funds.  He  thought  it  would  give  her 
a  wrong  impression — make  her  think  that  Frances 
had  been  more  unreasonable  than  she  really  had 
been. 

But  before  he  had  an  opportunity  to  form  a 
worthy  argument  to  offer  to  her,  she  had  started 
on  another  subject. 

"Know  Suffern  Thorne,  do  you?" 

"Why,  yes." 

"Like  him?" 

"Can't  say  I  do." 

"Knew  how  he  courted  Frances  at  the  same  time 
you  did,  didn't  you?" 

"Why,  yes.     I  beat  him." 

"Yes ;  she  had  sense  enough  for  that,  thank  good- 
ness! Did  you  know  that  he  was  hanging  'round 
her  all  the  while,  these  days?" 

"I  suppose  they  meet." 

"Yes;  often.  I'm  not  saying  that  there's  any 
harm  in  it.  There  isn't  any  really  truly  harm  in 
Frances;  but  you  don't  want  your  wife  to  be  the 
object  of  mean  gossip,  do  you?" 

"Of  course  not,  and  she  won't  be." 

"Maybe  not,  if  you  take  care  of  her.  Be  certain 
that  you  do  take  care  of  her.  She  needs  it,  Rich- 
ard; certainly  she  needs  it." 

This  vividly  annoyed  him.  "Why  should  Suf- 
fern Thorne — " 

"You  know,  young  man,  don't  you,  that  he's  the 
man  that  got  your  chance  to  go  into  that  pool?" 

"Yes;  Philip  told  me." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  85 

"Well,  he'd  take  other  things  of  yours  if  he 
could  do  it." 

"You  mean— "   f 

"Never  mind  exactly  what  I  mean.  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  say  it;  but  don't  let  Frances  run  around  so 
much.  She's  too  attractive — from  the  skin  out; 
she's  too  silly — from  the  skin  in.  Here  we  are, 
now,  at  your  place,  so  I  won't  have  to  hear  your 
answer.  Good-night,  Richard.  I  wish  you  well; 
I  surely  wish  you  well.  Let  me  know  if  I  can  help 
you  with  advice  at  any  time.  Good-night." 

Often,  to  save  his  strength  for  the  next  day,  he 
went  to  bed  before  his  wife  came  in,  but  this  night 
he  did  not.  Instead,  he  sat  down  at  the  little 
spindle-legged  desk  his  wife  had  changed  his  old 
one  for,  when  she  had  furnished  up  his  room  for 
him,  one  week  when  he  was  out  of  town.  The  desk 
annoyed  him,  as  almost  all  the  things  for  which 
she  had  changed  the  solid,  practical  old  furniture 
of  his  bachelor  days,  annoyed  him,  but  he  knew 
that  she  had  done  it  thinking  it  would  please 
him,  so  he  never  had  informed  her  that  it  did 
not. 

This  night,  however,  he  found  the  shaky,  slim- 
legged  thing  unbearable.  He  could  not  write  up- 
on it,  so  he  cleared  away  a  place  upon  a  corner  of 
a  table  and  began  to  figure,  figure,  figure  on  a  pad 
there,  trying  to  devise  some  way  of  meeting  his 
increased  outgo  and  still  save  up  the  money  which 
would  let  him  take  the  next  chance  when  it  came 
along.  How  bitterly  he  regretted  that  he  had  been 
forced  to  miss  this  one,  he  would  not  even  tell  him- 
self. 


86  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

He  was  sitting  there,  at  work,  when,  after  three 
o'clock,  his  wife  came  in. 

"Oh,  Dicky  dear,"  she  cried,  delighted,  "it  was 
good  of  you  to  sit  up  for  me,  darling." 

She  ran  to  him  and  threw  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  cuddled  him  before  she  gave  Elise  her 
things.  Elise  was  her  new  maid  and  very  com- 
petent and  French  and  costly.  Her  presence  al- 
ways made  Ward  madly  nervous. 

"So  good  of  you !"  she  cooed. 

"I  don't  see  very  much  of  you,"  he  ventured, 
after  the  maid  had  gone. 

"Because  you  don't  go  with  me,"  she  said 
gaily,  "and  you'd  have  such  good  times  if  you 
did!" 

"I'm  afraid  my  work  does  not  leave  time  or 
strength  to  stay  awake  and  play  all  night,"  said 
Richard. 

"But  here  you  are,  awake  all  night,  without  hav- 
ing gone  to  play  with  me,  at  all !" 

"I  went  down  to  the  club  to  have  a  talk  with 
Cartwright,  and  then,  when  I  got  home,  I  had 
some  figuring  to  do,  so  you  see  I've  really  been 
busy." 

"But  Dicky  dear,  you  would  have  been  as  busy 
if  you'd  gone  with  mel  And  at  so  much  more 
pleasant  things." 

"These  things  were  business." 

"I'm  afraid  my  boy  gives  altogether  too  much 
thought  to  business." 

"I  have  to,  dear.  Now  there  was  something 
that  I  wished  to  say  to  you.  I  wonder  if  we  couldn't 
cut  expenses  just  a  bit." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  87 

"Of  course  we  can,  if  you  think  best." 

He  smiled,  delighted.  "That's  fine.  I'm  glad 
you  feel  that  way  about  it.  You  see,  I  had  a 
chance,  to-night,  to  go  into  a  deal  which  would  have 
made — oh,  heaps — for  us,  but  couldn't  do  it.  We 
have  spent  so  much  on  living  that  I  didn't  have  the 
money." 

"Why  didn't  you  just  borrow?" 

"That's  not  always  easy  and  it's  not  often  wise. 
But,  you  understand,  if  we  had  been  more  careful 
and  I  had  had  the  money,  I  could  have  made 
enough  so  that,  perhaps,  from  now  on  we  would 
not  have  had  to  be  so  careful." 

"If  you'd  only  told  of  it  before  1" 

"I  didn't  know  till  to-night." 

"Well,  what  shall  I  do?" 

"We'd  better  cut  down,  here  and  there — oh,  all 
along  the  line  for  this  year,  Frances.  That  will 
give  me  capital  I  really  need.  You  see,  our  home 
is  eating  all  our  income  and  that  isn't  wise." 

"Of  course  not;  and  I'll  help  you  all  I  can." 

"You  dear!" 

,"For,     really,     we   ought    to     save    a   lot    of 
money." 

"Indeed  we  ought." 

"I've  been  thinking  that  we'll  have  to  build, 
Dick,  before  long,  you  see,  and — " 

"Building  wouldn't  be  the  way  to  save,  just 
now,  exactly." 

"No;  of  course  not,  only  it  seems  rather  cheap 
to  live  in  just  a  rented  flat,  now  doesn't  it?" 

"If  it  seems  cheap  it  isn't,"  he  said,  laughing,  for 
her  arms  were  tight  about  his  neck,  her  cheek 


88  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

pressed  tight  to  his,  the  perfume  of  her  charming 
person  everywhere  enveloping  him. 

"Well,  you  let  me  know  when  you  think  we  can 
build,"  she  went  on  gaily.  "I'll  be  thinking  out 
just  how  the  dear  house  ought  to  be — our  house, 
—Richard — our  house!  Won't  it  be  just 
lovely?" 

"Indeed  it  will,  and  if  we  really  economize  so 
that,  next  time,  I  can  take  advantage  of  stray 
chances  like  the  one  I  lost  to-night — " 

"Of  course,  dear;  certainly." 

"And  there  is  another  matter  that  I  want  to 
speak  about,  my  dear;  a  matter  which  is  even  less 
agreeable,  but  which  I'm  sure  you  will  forgive  me 
for  referring  to.  There  is  a  little  talk,  I  find, 
about  the  fact  that  Suffern  Thorne  is  so  attentive 
to  you.  I  know  it  is  the  merest  idle  gossip,  but  we 
don't  want  any  kind  of  gossip,  do  we?" 

"He's  been  just  as  kind." 

"I  know,  dear,  but  perhaps  you'd  best  not  favor 
him,  particularly — over  others,  don't  you  know? 
He's  not  what  I  would  call  a  friend  of  mine.  We 
never  liked  each  other." 

"Of  course  you  didn't.  I  know  that.  Well, 
there's  only  one  thing  to  be  done,  then,  and  that  is 
to  ignore  him,  utterly." 

"It's  good  of  you  to  be  so  sweet  about  it." 

"I'm  just  delighted,  Dicky  dear,  to  do  anything 
you  ask  of  me.  You  won't  mind  my  riding  with 
him  Thursday,  will  you,  for  I've  promised  to  do 
that,  but  after  that — " 

He  was  annoyed,  but  he  was  helpless. 

"Well,  after  that  then  surely,"  he  said,  smil- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  89 

ing  at  her  as  one  smiles  at  a  spoiled  child  who  yet 
remains  delightful. 

"And  we'll  be  very,  very  economical." 

"Yes,  dear;  it  would  so  please  me." 

"And  then  you'll  build  me  a  new  house — a  house 
that  shall  be  absolutely  all  my  very  own." 

"After  we  save  enough  so  that  I  can  make  a  pot 
of  money." 

Tm  not  going  to  believe  it  will  be  very  long. 
.  .  .  Elise  .  .  .  Elise  .  .  /' 

The  maid  came,  bustling. 

"And,  after  all,  dear  Richard,  don't  you  think 
you're  doing  Suffern  Thorne  the  teeny-weeniest  in- 
justice? Why  he's  very  nice  to  me.  This  very 
night  I  came  home  in  his  limousine.  It's  so  much 
comf 'tabler  than  ours !  He  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't 
use  it  often.  He  even  gave  me  his  garage  call  and 
said  that  he  would  leave  instructions  to  have  it  or 
any  other  of  his  cars  sent  to  me  any  time  I  wished." 

Ward  looked  at  her  in  almost  sharp  annoyance : 
"My  dear,"  he  said,  and  in  his  voice  was  some  hint 
of  actual  sternness,  "you  will  please  use  my  cars 
only.  I  do  not  care  to  have  you  taking  any  favors 
whatsoever  from  that  man." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  she  pouted,  "if  that's  the  fool- 
ish way  you  feel  about  it!  He  only  seemed  to 
want  to  make  me  happy." 

"You  must  let  me  be  the  one  to  make  you  happy, 
Frances." 

"Sometimes  you  don't — sometimes  you  make 
me  most  wwhappy." 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  a  bear." 

"There,  dear,  I  know  you  don't,  so  don't  feel 


90  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

hurt  because  I  said  mean  things.  I'm  going  to  bed 
now,  to  forget  just  everything  except  the  bee-ee- 
yu-ti-ful  new  house." 

"But  don't  forget  that  you  must  help  me  save, 
so  we  can  build  it  quickly." 

"Yes,  I  must  help  you  save  so  we  can  build  it 
quickly." 


CHAPTER  V 

There  was  a  strange  difference,  two  years  later, 
between  the  real  emotions  of  Richard  Ward  on 
the  day  he  bought  the  handsome  plot  on  which  his 
new  house  was  to  stand,  and  those  which  he  had 
thought,  in  many  a  long  revery,  he  would  experi- 
ence on  that  occasion.  It  was  a  stately  plot,  as 
stately  plots  of  land  are  counted  in  New  York, 
where  they  measure  real  estate  by  inches.  It  faced 
that  portion  of  Fifth  Avenue  skirting  Central 
Park  which  means  that  it  ran  very  largely  into 
money.  Distinguished  names  would  have  been  on 
the  doorplates  of  adjoining  mansions  were  it  not 
sheer  tempting  Providence  and  thousands  of  un- 
welcome callers  to  put  such  very  famous  names  up- 
on door-plates.  No  vulgar  car-lines  ran  before  this 
lot — only  the  great  gasoline  juggernauts  of  the 
Fifth  Avenue  Stage  Line,  with  seats  atop,  and 
spruce  conductors  who  could  name  the  houses  of 
the  rich  in  glib  rotation  (for  a  fee)  bore  the  people 
past  its  front  at  exactly  twice  the  cost  of  ordinary 
car-fare.  This  portion  of  Fifth  Avenue  is  the 
most  exclusive  thoroughfare  in  all  America. 
Heavy  trucking  is  kept  from  it  by  mounted  guard- 
ians in  blue  at  every  point  where  it  is  likely  to  at- 
tempt an  entrance;  the  poor  may  walk  on  it  and 
wonder,  that  is  all;  a  special  force  of  officers  in 
grey  stand  guard  on  it,  in  addition  to  the  city's 
commonplace  policeman,  for  along  this  park-front 


92  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

stretches  a  long  line  of  solid  blocks  scarce  broken, 
anywhere,  by  vacant  lots,  each  one  housing  some- 
thing like  a  score  of  millionaires. 

On  the  day  the  stakes  were  driven  for  the  ex- 
cavation Richard  was  on  hand  and  chatting  with  the 
architect — a  very  famous  architect — while  Frances 
was  out  in  the  car,  detached,  because  it  might  seem 
overly  enthusiastic  to  be  actually  upon  the  ground, 
but  still  intensely  interested  and  elated.  Two  of 
the  common  people  stopped  upon  the  sidewalk, 
watching  operations  with  dull,  idle  curiosity. 

"Another  palace  goin'  up  for  some  damn 
millionaire,"  said  one  of  them,  with  less  resentment 
in  his  face  than  his  words  indicated. 

"Uh-huh.  Gee!  It  runs  to  money — land  here 
on  the  Avenya!  Feller  said  the  other  day  that 
you  could  cover  it  with  fi'dollar  gold-pieces  thick 
as  you  could  lay  'em,  and,  just  about  put  down 
its  value." 

"I  saw  that  in  the  Evening  Joinal,  once." 

"An'  it'll  take  as  much  to  build  th'  house,  an' 
so,  before  it's  finished,  you  could  cover  it  with  tens, 


an'—" 


"G'wan!  Ain't  you  th' chump  ?  Wouldn't  take 
no  more  in  money  to  cover  it  with  tens  than  'twould 
to  cover  it  with  fives.  They're  worth  more,  but 
they're  bigger." 

"  'Twould,  too,  take  more.  They  ain't  twice  as 
big  around — a  part  th'  reason  that  they're  worth 
more  is  they're  thicker.  So  it  would  run  into  lots 
more  money.  Why — " 

"  'Twouldn't  take  a  cent  more.  Just  th'  same. 
Why—" 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  93 

The  two  passed  OH,  but  on  the  face  of  the  de- 
lightful woman  waiting  in  the  auto  was  a  smile 
which  had  not  been  there  just  before  they  eame. 
The  talk  had  pleased  her.  Frances  was  not,  quite, 
a  cad — she  did  not  feel  "superior"  or  lofty,  or  un- 
charitably proud,  as  some  rich  women  have  been 
said  to  feel,  but  it  gave  her  a  delicious  feeling  of 
luxurious  warmth  about  the  heart  to  know  that 
what  the  two  men  had  been  talking  of  was  the  site 
her  husband  had  secured  for  their  new  home,  that 
what  they  had  said  of  it  was  almost  if  not  quite 
true,  and  that,  over  and  above  all,  it  was  she — 
she,  Frances  Ward^  sitting  in  the  auto  unobtru- 
sively and  listening  to  them,  for  whom  he  had 
secured  the  lot,  for  whom  he  was  to  have  the  house 
built. 

After  they  had  seen  the  staking  done,  Richard 
and  the  architect  strolled  out  across  the  sidewalk 
to  the  side  of  the  big  motor. 

"Well,"  said  Richard,  with  a  somewhat  tired 
smile,  "work  has  at  last  begun,  dear — it  has  actual- 
ly begun."  His  voice  was  flat  and  unenthusiastic. 

"I'm  50  glad,"  Frances  smiled  back  at  him. 

There  was  much  more  actual  satisfaction  in  her 
smile  than  his,  for  elements  were  mixed  in  his. 
Expressions  far  from  smiling  were  often  on  his 
face,  these  days,  and  some  of  them  had  so  grown 
fixed  there  that  when  smiles  came  they  were  forced 
to  work  their  way  through  them,  if  they  would 
win  to  light  at  all.  Things  were  going  well  with 
him,  to  every  outward  seeming.  On  the  Street  it 
was  well-known  that  he  was  making  money — mak- 
ing a  great  deal  of  money — but,  somehow,  he  never 


94  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

seemed  to  quite  catch  up  with  the  continually  in- 
creasing outgo.  Reared  by  no  means  to  a  simple 
life,  he  found  himself,  in  this  the  fifth  year  of  his 
marriage,  living  in  the  midst  of  manifold  com- 
plexities of  which  he  had  before  not  dreamed. 
Their  establishment,  even  in  the  fnighty,  fashion- 
able apartment  building  where  they  lived,  where 
everything  was  advertised  as  being  done  by  the 
elaborate  and  expert  management,  comprised  too 
many  details  for  his  tired  mind  to  try  to  follow 
when  he  went  there  from  the  office;  he  had  almost 
abandoned  effort  to  join  Frances  in  any  of  the 
multitude  of  social  activities  which  now  absorbed 
her  time,  or  even,  to  keep  track  of  them  at  all;  he 
was  accustomed  to  discovering  some  late  picture  of 
her — very  likely  one  which  he  had  never  before 
seen — on  the  society  pages  of  the  newspapers,  in 
connection  with  accounts  of  social  functions  of 
which  he  had  not  heard  at  all.  The  husband  and 
the  wife  saw  little  of  one  another,  although  she 
worried  more  about  this,  seemingly,  than  he  did. 
She  was  always  chiding  him  because  he  was  at 
home  so  little,  and  always  he  was  promising  to 
spend  more  time  with  her — and  always  failing  on 
account  of  the  grind,  grind  of  money-making  which 
her  mode  of  life  made  necessary  and  which  would 
never  let  him  rest.  That  summer  he  had  spent 
almost  the  whole  hot  period  in  town,  while  she  had 
been  at  Newport  as  the  guest  of  various  of  their 
fashionable  friends.  In  his  soul  he  knew  that 
this  new  house  was  a  mad  venture;  but  he  had 
found  himself  unable  to  resist  her  constant  plead- 
ings— sometimes  frankly  begging,  oftener  veiled 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  95 

in  some  allusion  that  disturbed  him  more  than  the 
frank  begging  did. 

Aunt  Gretchen  sent  for  him  the  day  following 
that  on  which  the  lines  for  the  new  house  were 
laid. 

"I  read  this  -morning's  papers,  Richard,"  she 
said  grimly,  looking  at  him  over  her  big  spectacles 
as  she  leaned  back  in  her  swivel-chair  before  her 
desk.  The  passing  years  had  made  few  changes 
in  her.  Her  gown  may  possibly  have  been  a 
little  rustier — her  hair  a  little  grayer;  perhaps 
not. 

"Did  you?"  he  asked  vaguely.  "I  didn't — that 
is,  I  only  read  'financial'.  Anything  particular?" 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "there's  something  quite  par- 
ticular. Another  poor  fool  has  gone  wrong." 

"Embezzlement?  I  hope  not  in  a  bank  that 
you've  got  stock  in." 

"Yes,  it's  embezzlement,"  she  said,  with  her 
peculiar  diction,  a  combination  of  slow  drawls  and 
snaps,  the  snaps,  of  course,  signs  that  sentences  had 
ended.  "Not  in  a  bank,  of  funds,  though;  in  a 
head,  of  brains.  Who  robbed  you,  Richard?" 

He  stared  somewhat  blankly  at  her. 

"Oh,  I  know,  of  course,"  said  she.  "Frances 
it  was — and  always  is.  Is  it  going  to  be  forever, 
Richard?  Have  you  no  will  left,  whatever?  No 
self-control?  No  brains,  at  all?" 

"Before  you  go  much  further,"  he  suggested, 
"would  you  mind  explaining  to  me  what  you 
mean?" 

"You  bought  that  property  and  you  are  building 
a  great  house  on  it." 


96  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Well,  other  men  have  bought  much  finer  pro- 
perty and  built  much  greater  houses." 

"Other  men — but  men  with  money." 

"Am  I  not  a  man  with  money?" 

"No;  you're  only  one  who's  making  money. 
You  are  not  a  man  with  money,  for  you  spend  it 
just  as  fast  as  you  can  make  it — or  Frances  does. 
Faster,  I  presume.  Richard,  are  you  never  going 
to  wake  up?" 

She  never  quite  angered  him.  Her  talks,  he 
knew,  were  meant  to  be  most  kind  and  do  him 
good,  and  generally  he  realized  the  justice  of  her 
reasoning  and  critical  deductions.  He  would  not 
have  listened  to  another  person  on  the  footstool 
who  uttered  criticisms  of  his  wife — he  realized 
that  she  had  absolutely  a  good  right  to:  she  had 
earned  it  by  the  early  care  the  death  of  Frances' 
parents  had  thrown  on  her — care  she  had  accepted 
without  murmuring  except  when  things,  she  thought, 
went  quite  too  far. 

"Well,"  he  said,  in  weak  defense,  "the  house  is 
not  what  you're  so  fond  of  calling  'waste.'  It  isn't 
money  actually  gone — disposed  of,  never  to  re- 
turn— as  some  expenditures  have  been.  The  pro- 
perty will  grow  in  value.  I'll  be  able  any  time,  to 
get  my  money  back." 

"In  twenty  years,  perhaps,"  she  said,  sententious- 
ly.  "I've  looked  the  matter  over,  Richard.  You 
paid  a-hundred-and-ten-thousand  for  the  lot." 

"How  did  you  find  that  out?"  he  asked,  sur- 
prised. "The  price,  it  was  expressly  stipulated, 
was  to  be  kept  secret." 

"I  should  think  you  might  have  stipulated  that," 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  97 

she  said,  with  sagely  nodding  head,  as  she  again 
peered  at  him  over  her  great  spectacles.  "I  should 
think,  perhaps,  young  man,  you  -might  have  been 
quite  anxious  that  the  price  should  be  kept  secret." 

"Er — why?"  he  asked,  although  he  knew,  quite 
well. 

"Because  you  know  you  paid  not  less  than 
twenty-thousand  more  than  that  lot's  worth,"  said 
she,  "That's  why,  Richard;  that's  just  why.  I 
am  glad  you  tried  to  keep  it  secret.  It  shows  that 
you've  not  lost  your  business  head  entirely.  Why 
did  you  do  it?" 

"Well,  it  was  the  site  which  we  particularly 
wanted,"  he  said,  somewhat  ill  at  ease. 

"'We?  We'  Was  it  really 'we',  or— Frances?" 
she  asked  slowly. 

"It  was  'we'.  He  was  determined  to  defend  his 
wife  at  this  point. 

"I  don't  believe  you  cared  a  rap  what  lot  your 
house  was  built  on;  I  don't  believe  you  cared  a  rap 
to  have  a  house  at  all ;  I  don't  believe  that  it's  your 
doings  in  the  smallest  detail  but  the  payment  for 
it." 

"Don't  you  think  I  care  as  much  as  other  men 
about  a  home?" 

"I  don't  know  how  much  you  care  about  one; 
I'm  quite  sure  you  haven't  got  one;  I'm  quite  sure 
that  building  that  house  on  the  Avenue  won't  sup- 
ply you  with  one,  either." 

But  the  building  of  the  house  went  on,  apace. 

Richard  was  a  daily  visitor  at  the  scene  of 
operations,  at  the  start,  then  he  went  around  upon 
alternate  days,  then  once  a  week,  then  sometimes; 


98  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

finally  he  found  the  fight  downtown  so  fierce,  so 
all  absorbing,  that  he  almost  quite  forgot  the  house 
except  when  time  came  for  the  signing  of  the 
checks.  Then  it  came  back  to  his  mind  with  a  dis- 
tressing rush. 

He  was  a  careful  business  man  in  details,  though, 
and  when  bills  began  to  come,  in  steady  streams, 
for  things  which  he  knew  nothing  of,  he  instantly 
investigated.  His  plans  and  specifications  for  the 
ornate  porch  called  for  green-sandstone  pillars. 
An  extra  bill  came  in  for  hand-rubbed  granite. 
Oak-wainscoting  was  to  have  ringed  the  library  to 
six-foot  height.  The  detailed  bills  from  the  in- 
terior wood-work  people  showed  a  wainscoting 
eleven  feet  high,  and  carved,  instead  of  pannelled. 
There  also  were  carved  brick  for  the  great  fire- 
place in  the  dining-room,  which  he  had  heard  no 
word  about  before  he  was  required  to  pay  for  them, 
and  other  things,  of  a  like  mystery,  which  mounted 
up,  in  aggregate,  to  a  large  sum — well  over 
thirteen  thousand  dollars.  He  called  the  architect 
upon  the  telephone  and  failed  to  get  him;  then  he 
called  the  contractor. 

He  was  definitely  angry.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
Someone  was  endeavoring  to  impose  on  his  in- 
telligence. Of  course  he  would  not  have  to  pay  the 
bills — the  specifications  were  attached  to  all  the 
copies  of  the  contract.  He  wondered  if  they 
thought  him  such  a  fool  that  he  would  let  them 
slip  these  extras  in  on  him  and  pay  the  excess 
charges  without  murmuring.  Money  had  been 
flowing  from  his  office  in  a  never-ceasing  stream 
to  them,  and,  although  much  had  been  coming  in, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  99 

he  felt  the  drain  too  plainly  to  be  comfortable — 
his  balance  at  one  bank  was  quite  too  low,  another 
had  informed  him  that  it  was  approaching  danger- 
mark.  Notwithstanding  his  large  income  he  was 
pressed  for  ready  money  till  he  scarcely  knew  what 
to  do.  Frances  had  been  ruthless  in  her  personal 
expenditures — bills  from  modistes  and  smart  mil- 
liners, jewelers  and  boot-makers,  corsetiers  and 
caterers — these  had  been  growing  both  in  number 
and  in  size  with  startling  speed  of  late. 

"I  want  to  know,"  he  asked  the  contractor, 
"where  you  got  any  authorization  to  make  changes 
in  the  specifications  for  my  house.  There  are  a 
dozen  matters  of  increased  expense  of  which  I  have 
heard  nothing  until  now,  when  they  are  mentioned 
on  your  monthly  statements." 

"What  especially,  do  you  refer  to?"  asked  the 
man,  plainly  much  surprised. 

"Well,  there's  that  added  height  of  wainscoting 
for  one  thing,  the  carved  brick  for  that  fire-place 
for  another,  and  there's  a  charge  for  hand-rubbed- 
granite  for  the  pillars  of  the  porch.  The  plans 
and  specifications  call  for  green  sandstone." 

"Mrs.  Ward  it  was,  who  ordered  them,"  the 
contractor  said  quickly,  and  then  mercifully  dis- 
connected. He  was  a  married  man  himself  and 
could  without  much  difficulty  make  a  guess  at  the 
mixed  feelings  of  the  man  who  sat  at  the  far  end 
of  that  wire  just  then. 

"Frances  dear,"  said  Ward  that  evening,  striv- 
ing to  be  very  calm  indeed,  "You'd  better  have  a 
little  talk  with  me,  hereafter,  before  you  order 
changes  in  the  house.  They — cost,  you  know." 


ioo  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

She  looked  at  him  in  real  surprise.  "Why, 
Dicky  dear,  I've  only  made  the  littlest  changes! 
Just  a  few  things  here  and  there,  that  I  was  sure 
would  make  it  so  much  better." 

"I  have  so  far,  been  forced  to  pay  a  matter  of 
some  thirteen  thousand  dollars  for  those  'little 
changes,'  "  he  replied,  still  very  carefully  and  calm- 
ly. "Frances,  I  cannot  stand  the  drain." 

"But  thirteen  thousand  dollars,  darling,  that  is 
not  so  much,  and  remember  that  we'll  have  to  live 
in  it — the  house,  I  mean.". 

"Thirteen  thousand  dollars,  dear,  is  a  great  sum 
of  money.  I'm  not  in  a  position,  at  the  present 
time,  to  have  such  added  liabilities  thrust  on  me 
without  warning.  You  might  seriously  embarrass 
me  by  doing  things  like  that  too  often — most  ser- 
iously embarrass  me." 

"Have  I  really  made  my  Dicky-daddies  a  whole 
lot  of  worry?"  she  cried,  going  to  him  with  her 
fascinating  face,  her  slim  caressing  hands,  even  the 
delightful  lines  of  her  fine  figure  begging  lenience. 
"I'm  so  sorry!  Won't  I  be  forgiven  if  I  won't  do 
it — any — more  ?" 

Of  course  he  took  her  in  his  arms;  of  course  he 
told  her  that  it  did  not  really  matter,  although  he 
begged  her  (he  did  not  command  her)  never  to 
do  things  like  that  again  without  consulting  him. 

Another  thing  was  worrying  him,  and  one  which 
he  was  half  ashamed  to  worry  over.  Monty  was 
no  longer  now  a  boy;  he  was  a  young  man,  and  he 
felt  all  an  elder  brother's  fine  responsibility  for  a 
bright  youngster  without  parents.  He  was  in  his 
senior  year  at  Harvard  and  would  soon  be  on  his 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  101 

hands  to  start  aright  in  the  great  world.  His 
vacations  had,  of  course,  been  spent  with  him,  and 
Monty  and  Clarice  had  been  thrown  much  together 
for  Clarice  spent  as  much  time  with  Frances  as  she 
could,  both  because  there  was  a  strong  bond  of 
affection  between  the  sisters,  and  because  Clarice 
found  things  unpleasant  sometimes,  at  Aunt  Gret- 
chen's.  The  calm,  hard-headed  business-woman 
eyed  with  disapproval  the  girl's  growing  tendency 
to  consider  money  only  as  a  means  of  entertain- 
ment; to  forget  that  someone  had  to  earn  it  through 
hard  work;  to  not  only  take  the  goods  the  gods 
provided  willingly,  but  to  grasp  through  strategy 
and  subterfuge,  through  hint  and  sometimes  actual 
double-dealing — harmless  enough,  but  to  Aunt 
Gretchen  inconceivably  deplorable — for  more. 

He  noted  all  these  things  and  vaguely,  most 
indefinitely,  indeed,  but  still  undoubtedly,  his  young- 
er brother's  growing  liking  for  her  company  dis- 
turbed him,  although  really  he  cared  more  for 
Clarice  himself,  than  most  husbands  do  for  their 
wives'  sisters. 

He  went  to  the  house  on  Washington  Square 
north,  where  Gretchen  Jans  had  summoned  him, 
early  one  summer  evening,  arriving  just  in  time  to 
be  a  witness  of  a  little  verbal  passage  between  the 
girl  and  her  positive  old  relative. 

Clarice  sat  on  the  handsomely  carved  stool  be- 
fore the  square  piano — both  relics  of  a  bygone 
fashion,  archaic  but  glowing  from  much  polishing. 
The  chord  the  girl  had  just  struck  in  her  nervous- 
ness at  the  thought  of  what  was  coming  still  hov- 
ered in  the  room,  as  pure  and  full  as  any  harmony 


102  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

from  a  more  modern  instrument  could  be.  Noth- 
ing of  Gretchen  Jan's  which  could  be  kept  in  good 
condition  by  minute  and  ceaseless  care  was  per- 
mitted to  deteriorate. 

"But,  Aunt  Gretchen,"  Clarice  said,  "I'm  simply 
naked." 

"I  don't  see  more  bare  skin  than  usual,"  was  the 
answer.  "Not  half  as  much  as  I  would  see  if  I 
bought  all  those  clothes  for  you  and  let  you  have 
them  made  the  way  you'd  like  to  have  them  made." 

"I  mean  I've  got  no  clothes  that  really  are  fit 
to  wear." 

"When  I  was  a  girl  of  your  age  I  had  just  three 
dresses — two  of  calico  to  work  around  in,  that 
would  wash,  and  one  of  checkered  wool  for  church 
and  funerals." 

"But  that  wasn't  in  New  York." 

"I  thank  my  stars  it  wasn't,  if  you  and  Frances 
are  fair  samples  of  the  kind  of  girls  New  York  pro- 
duces, Clarice !  My  girlhood  was  a  preparation 
for  good  wife-and  motherhood.  Yours  seems  to 
be  a  preparation  for  a  future  as  a  dummy  figure 
at  a  clothes-show." 

Clarice  turned  away,  almost  in  tears. 

"Don't  think  for  one  short  minute,  that  starting 
in  to  cry  will  make  me  change  my  mind  a  particle. 
I'm  not  Richard  Ward,  remember." 

Ward,  who  had  not  been  announced  or  seen, 
withdrew  discreetly,  for  the  moment,  not  too  com- 
fortable. 

The  disappointed  girl  fled  uptown  to  his 
wife,  and  they  talked  the  matter  over  with  much 
wrath. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  103 

The  net  results  of  the  long  conversation  were 
some  secret  trunks  of  finery  made  for  Clarice,  but 
not  delivered  at  the  house  on  Washington  Square, 
north.  Sent  to  the  great  apartment  of  the  Wards 
(as  were  the  bills  for  them)  they  went  later,  with 
the  delighted  girl  at  the  New  Jersey  coast  resort 
to  which  her  aunt  had  sent  her  for  vacation,  and 
there  their  contents  attracted  such  attention  that, 
in  course  of  time,  this  reached  the  ears  of  Gretchen 
Jans. 

The  wholly  innocent  medium  of  this  revelation 
was  poor  Monty  Ward  who,  home  from  college 
and  from  some  weeks  with  a  friend  whose  father 
was  an  Adirondack  millionaire,  had  hastened  when 
these  weeks  were  over,  to  the  staid  resort  where 
Clarice  was  staying.  Monty  never  knew  the  bite 
of  poverty  which  many  college  boys  know  well,  for 
Richard,  remembering  the  troubles  of  his  own 
days  as  a  student,  dealt  generously  with  him.  In- 
deed his  somewhat  lavish  but  by  no  means  too  ex- 
pensive care  of  Monty  was  almost  the  only  luxury 
be  allowed  himself.  His  gorgeous  home  was  al- 
most anything  but  luxury  to  him — it  meant  not  real 
enjoyment  but  a  source  of  endless  worry,  cease- 
less smothered  disapproval. 

Returning  to  New  York  the  lad  decided  that  it 
would  be  right  for  him  to  call  upon  the  aunt  of  the 
exceedingly  smart  girl  whom  he  had  just  seen  at  the 
seaside.  In  his  heart,  despite  the  fierce  and  num- 
berless complaints  of  her  which  he  had  heard  from 
Frances  and  from  Clarice,  he  had  more  respect  for 
Mrs.  Gretchen  Jans  than  he  had  ever  had  before, 
for  anyone  except  his  brother.  Her  competence 


104  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

made  powerful  appeal  to  him,  as  it  did  indeed  to 
most  men,  and  he  regarded  her  with  that  enthusias- 
tic homage,  despite  Clarice's  veiled  complaints  of 
her,  which  youth  will  ever  pay  to  great  success.  It 
thrilled  him,  when  he  thought  of  it,  to  realize  that 
he  should  be  on  calling  terms  with  the  richest 
woman  in  America;  it  gave  him  a  certain  satis- 
faction to  reflect  that  he  knew  many  ot  the  number- 
less accounts  of  her  and  her  home  life  which  had 
appeared  in  newspapers  and  magazines  to  be 
quite  false;  he  was  delighted  when,  as  he  ap- 
proached and  found  her  standing  on  the  broad 
white-marble  steps  before  her  home,  she  looked 
across  her  spectacles  at  him,  at  first,  inquiringly, 
as  if  he  were  a  stranger,  and  then  began  to  smile 
with  some  signs  of  cordiality  and  held  out  her  hand 
to  him.  She  liked  the  whole-souled,  care-free, 
honest-faced,  broad-shouldered  youth  immensely 
and  she  showed  it  in  the  hearty  clasp  she  gave  his 
hand  as  he  came  up  the  steps  to  her. 

"Well,  now,  young  man,"  said  she,  "and  where 
did  you  come  from?  I  thought  you  were  in  col- 
lege." 

"Vacation  time,"  said  Monty. 

"All  the  time  seems  nowadays,  to  be  vacation 
time  for  young  folks,"  she  replied  as  she  made 
room  for  him  on  the  top  step  to  which  she  sank, 
herself,  in  somewhat  weary  fashion.  She  showed 
herself  no  mercy,  ever,  and  almost  every  evening, 
when  she  reached  her  home,  was  very  tired.  Then 
she  liked  to  sit  there  on  those  steps,  if  the  weather 
made  this  possible,  and  look  out  into  the  queer 
life  of  the  queerest  park  in  all  America.  "You 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  105 

haven't  told  me  where  you've  been,  young  man," 
she  said,  when  they  were  seated. 

"In  the  Adirondacks,  for  a  while,  then  down  the 
coast  a  bit." 

She  looked  sharply  at  him,  instantly  suspecting 
that  he  probably  had  seen  the  girls. 

"The  Clarice-and-Frances  coast?"  she  asked. 

He  laughed.  "It  used  to  be  called  Jersey,  but 
you've  got  the  new  name  for  it  right." 

"Didn't  see  them,  did  you?" 

"Now,  Mrs.  Jans—" 

"As  long  as  you  stay  sensible  you  may  call  me, 
as  your  brother  does,  'Aunt  Gretchen'." 

"Thanks,  awfully  for  that,"  said  he,  with  a  frank 
smile  of  genuine  delight.  "And  I  never  should 
have  gone  down  to  the  Clarice-and-Frances  coast 
if  it  had  happened  not  to  be  the  Clarice-and- 
Frances  coast." 

"What's  that,  young  man?" 

"I  never  should  have  gone  down  there,  if  they 
had  not  been  there." 

"Find  them  worth  the  trip,  did  you?" 

"Worth  the  trip!  Say,  they'd  be  worth  a  trip 
to  Persia !  Honestly,  I  think  your  nieces,  Mrs. 
Jans  Aunt  Gretchen — are  just  about  the  most  com- 
plete editions  of  'Perfect  Feminity  Brought  Up  to 
Date'  at  present  offered  at  the  book-stores." 

"You  do,  eh?    Looking  well,  were  they?" 

"I  guess;  they  had  the  field  put  sound  asleep. 
That  pink  silk  of  Clarice's  with  crinkles  in  it — you 
know,  the  one  she  wears  with  the  lace  parasol  with 
goblins  on  it — well — " 

"Pink  silk  with  crinkles?     Lace  parasol  with 


io6  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

goblins?  Excuse  me.  Go  right  on,  young 
man." 

He  did  not  note  the  queer  compression  of  her 
lips,  although  they  still  were  held  to  it  when  he  de- 
parted. 

Next  day  a  rather  short  old  lady  in  a  gown  of 
rusty  black  appeared  at  the  Grand  Ocean  View 
Hotel  at  that  exceedingly  smart  Jersey  coast  re- 
sort. The  vast  piazzas  were  well  filled  by  guests 
at  tea  and  there  were  those  among  them  who  posi- 
tively snickered  as  she  made  her  way  up  the  wide 
steps,  after  she  had  alighted  from  the  auto-bus 
which  had  conveyed  her  from  the  station. 

She  may  have  known  this  or  not,  at  any  rate  she 
gave  the  fact  no  heed,  if  she  did  know  it,  but 
marched  up  into  the  wide,  dim  hall  beyond  and 
down  its  mighty  length  to  the  far  office,  where, 
clustered  round  about  with  bell-boys  in  amazing 
uniforms,  as  lesser,  colored  jewels  sometimes  are 
set  about  a  diamond  in  a  fine  brooch,  the  clerk 
leaned  lazily  upon  the  desk  in  grandeur. 

"Are  you  the  clerk  of  this  hotel?"  the  wearer  of 
the  rusty  gown  said  pleasantly. 

He  changed  his  attitude  a  little,  giving  it  his 
fourth-class  air  of  deference. 

"Yes,  madam,"  he  replied. 

"Are  Mrs.  Ward  and  Miss  Van  Zandt  guests 
here?" 

"Yes,  madame,  I  think  so." 

"Don't  you  know,  young  man?" 

"They  are." 

"Are  all  those  boys,  there,  busy?" 

"No,  madame." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  107 

"Send  one  of  them,  please,  to  Miss  Van  Zandt  to 
tell  her  that  I'm  waiting  here." 

"Who  shall  I  say,  madame?" 

"You  needn't  say,  particularly.  Just  tell  him 
that  a  woman's  waiting.  An  old  woman." 

"That,  madame,  is  not  customary." 

"Oh,  isn't  it?    What  is?" 

UA  card  or  name,  madame." 

"I  don't  wish  to  send  a  name." 

"I  cannot  send  the  boy,  then." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  calm  face,  not  angered, 
not  even  scornful,  but  amused.  "Oh,  can't  you? 
Could  you  if  I  had  a  room  here?" 

"Er — I  suppose  so." 

"Let  me  have  a  room,  then." 

The  clerk  did  not  know  what  to  do  quite,  in  an 
emergency  like  this,  for  Miss  Van  Zandt  and  Mrs. 
Ward  were  nieces  of  the  famous  Gretchen  Jans, 
and  there  were  constant  rumours  among  the  guests 
of  the  hotel  that  Mrs.  Jans  herself,  might  come  to 
stay  a  day  or  two  with  them  at  any  time.  As  the 
richest  woman  in  America  very  seldom  went  a- 
pleasuring,  she  would  be  an  acquisition  to  this 
hostelry.  He  did  not  wish  therefore,  to  have  the 
ladies  angered  by  any  slip  of  judgment.  This  old 
woman  might  be  some  respected  servant,  some 
trusted  tradeswoman,  even  the  housekeeper  of  Mrs. 
Ward.  In  any  of  these  cases  it  would  probably 
annoy  them  should  she  not  be  treated  with  respect; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  might  and  looked  to  be 
too  sharp  and  shrewd  for  such  lowly  walks  in  life. 
She  might  be,  he  reflected,  a  begging  agent  from 


io8  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

some  charity,  who  would  annoy  them.  Such  people 
always  had  a  keen-eyed  look. 

But  finally  he  decided  that  there  was  a  vacant 
room  upon  the  top  floor  of  the  house,  at  the  far 
end  of  the  longest,  narrowest  corridor,  and  pre- 
pared to  write  her  name  upon  the  cardboard  slip 
which  represented  it  in  the  great  rack,  behind  the 
desk,  as  soon  as  she  had  signed  the  register.  He 
therefore  pushed  the  great  book  toward  her, 
dipped  a  pen  in  ink  and  held  it  out.  She  took  it 
with  a  hand  which  plainly  was  accustomed  to  mani- 
pulation of  such  weapons,  and,  as  he  waited,  wrote 
upon  the  register,  in  a  small,  unobtrusive  hand: 

"Gretchen  Jans,  New  York." 

The  startled  clerk's  whole  face  turned  brilliant 
red,  his  right  thumb  turned  a  greenish  black  be- 
cause he  inadvertently  inserted  it  in  the  great  ink- 
stand. He  did  not  even  notice  this  as  he  began  to 
make  apologies  and  offer  Mrs.  Jans  the  best  suite 
in  the  house. 

"The  room  you  have  selected  for  me  will  do 
very  well,"  she  said,  without  appearing  to  observe 
his  deep  embarrassment.  "It  probably  is  reason- 
able. Young  man,  your  thumb  is  in  the  ink-well." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Jans." 

"You  needn't.    It  is  not  my  thumb." 

"Er— er— " 

"Don't  put  it  on  your  nose !  What  did  you  say 
the  number  of  my  room  was?  Seven-nineteen ?" 

That  was  the  number  he  had  plainly  indicated — 
that  was  the  number  of  the  room  at  the  far  end 
of  the  most  dismal  and  the  longest  and  the  highest 
corridor  in  the  hotel. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  109 

"Why — er — no.  Perhaps  you  would  try  twenty- 
seven." 

"Better,  is  it?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Jans." 

"All  right;  I  hope  it  will  be  comfortable.  Now 
your  thumb  is  on  your  cuff.  Who  does  your  laun- 
dry for  you?  Tell  them  to  use  Take-Ink-Out. 
You'd  better  go  and  wash  your  thumb,  young  man." 

Behind  the  desk  was  a  large  mirror,  and,  re- 
flected in  it  she  now  caught  a  glimpse  of  Frances, 
and  walking  with  her,  a  gentleman  and  a  girl  in 
a  pink  dress  with  an  elaborate  parasol.  They  were 
approaching  her.  The  dress  was  very  pink,  the 
parasol  exceedingly  elaborate  and  there  were  drag- 
ons on  it  in  expert  embroidery.  Monty  had  men- 
tioned dragons.  The  gown  was  of  the  most  ex- 
pensive material  and  the  most  fashionable  model. 
Aunt  Gretchen  gasped,  for  she  really  had  not  known 
that  Clare  was  so  extremely  pretty — then  she  shut 
her  lips  with  a  very  definite  compression  and  took 
stock  of  who  was  with  the  sisters. 

Beside  Frances  strolled  a  very  carefully 
groomed  man,  somewhat  undersized.  He  was  the 
sort  of  man  who  never  fails  to  have  gloves  on  his 
hands  whenever  there  is  any  possible  excuse  for 
wearing  them.  His  shoes  were  perfect — brilliant 
in  their  varnish,  encasing  feet  which,  like  his  hands, 
were  almost  too  small  to  seem  masculine;  his  care- 
fully made  knockabout  suit  was  freshly  creased, 
and  every  detail  of  his  appearance  indicated  an  at- 
tentive valet  supplementing  the  best  efforts  of  the 
most  expensive  haberdashers  and  tailors.  His 
shoulders  drooped  a  little — his  whole  carriage  was 


no  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

a  little  languid,  and  his  face,  eager,  for  the  mo- 
ment, as  he  talked  to  Frances,  would,  it  was  ap- 
parent, sink  back  at  once,  when  this  momentary 
animation  left  it,  into  lines  etched  by  boredom. 
His  eyes  were  very  dark,  with  somewhat  saffroned 
whites  and  very  heavy  lids.  They  were  not  deep- 
set,  but  the  thickly  veined  skin  underneath  them 
gave  the  impression  of  a  shadow  and  made  them 
seem  sunken.  He  gestured  constantly,  but  not  ob- 
trusively, with  his  gloved  hands  as  the  party  walked 
toward  her,  gossiping  busily.  His  complexion  was 
quite  dark  enough  for  Spanish  blood  and  his  face 
was  long  and  thin  and  narrow. 

"Well,"  said  Gretchen  Jans.  "So  Suffern 
Thome's  here,  is  he?" 

A  moment  later  and  the  party  had  come  near 
enough  for  greetings. 

"How  do  you  do,  Frances?"  she  said,  turning 
calmly. 

Frances  gave  a  little  gasp.  "Why,  Aunt  Gret- 
chen !"  After  a  second's  hesitation  she  advavnced 
with  evidences  of  effusive  joy. 

"Don't  be  so  cordial,"  said  Aunt  Gretchen. 
"You  know  you  don't  feel  cordial." 

"Why,  of  course  I  do." 

Mrs.  Jans  turned  from  her  to  the  younger  girl. 

"How  dod  you  do,  Clarice?" 

Clarice  was  even  more  embarrassed  than  her 
sister.  "Er — er — how  delightful!  Dear  Aunt 
Gretchen !" 

"Glad  you're  so  delighted.  I  see  Monty  wasn't 
dreaming.  He  was  right  about  the  dress,"  (her 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  in 

eyes  took  Clarice  in  from  head  to  foot),  "and 
right  about  the  parasol." 

She  turned  from  them  as  Suffern  Thorne  ap- 
proached a  little  languidly,  giving  him  not  the  least 
attention. 

"He  was  right  about  some  other  things,  also, 
I  see." 

Thorne  greeted  her.     "Ah,  how  d'ye  do?" 

"I'm  very  well,"  said  Gretchen  Jans,  "although 
I  shouldn't  be  well  long,  if  I  remained  in  present 
company." 

She  spoke,  then,  to  the  hotel-clerk.  "Young 
man,  you  may  tell  a  boy  to  show  me  to  my  room." 

Then,  to  the  girls,  ignoring  Thorne  entirely: 

"You  may  come  up,  girls." 

In  the  room  she  eyed  them  as  they  stood, 
ashamed  to  be  ashamed,  angry  because  they  could 
not  help  but  act  as  if  they  had  been  caught  at 
something  surreptitious. 

"Well,  girls,"  she  said  to  them,  "you're  making 
quite  a  little  splash  here  at  the  seashore,  aren't 
you?  Best  suite  in  the  hotel,  clerk  says  you've 
taken,  Frances." 

"Yes;  Dick  told  me  to  be  just  as  happy  as  I 
could." 

"Helps  make  you  happy,  does  it — the  best  suite? 
More  room  than  I  had  in  my  whole  house  in  the 
first  three  years  when  I  was  married.  Helps  make 
you  happy,  does  it?  And  Richard  told  you  to  be 
happy.  Hum-um.  Suffern  Thorne — he  helps 
make  you  happy,  too,  does  he?" 

"Why,  Aunt  Gretchen—" 

"Clarice — those  clothes  you're  wearing — do  they 


ii2  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

make  you  happy?  I  suppose  you  know  Dick  paid 
for  them  and  Dick's  a  little  worried  about  money, 
these  days,  what  with  that  new  house  and  such. 
Maybe  he'd  be  worriedier  if  he  knew  he  paid  for 
them.  I'll  have  to  ask  him." 

"I  couldn't  have  come  down  here,  wearing  what 
I  had!" 

"No?  Good  place  to  stay  away  from,  then. 
Stand  out  there  Clare  and  turn  around.  Let  me 
see  that  dress,  front,  back  and  sides." 

Claire,  very  nervous,  did  so. 

"Now  let  me  take  that  parasol." 

Clare  handed  it  to  her  and  she  turned  it  over  in 
her  hands  and  looked  at  it  with  queer,  half-dis- 
gusted scrutiny.  It  was  as  if  the  hting  she  touched 
were  not  quite  clean.  Without  a  word  she  passed 
it  back.  Again  she  spoke  to  Frances. 

"So  that's  the  price  you're  getting — I  mean  all 
these  things — this  suite,  the  clothes  you're  decor- 
ated with  and  those  that  fill  your  trunks,  Clarice's 
silly  duds  and  parasol  and  the  company  of  men 
like  Suffern  Thorne !  That  is  the  price  you're  get- 
ting, is  it?  That,  and  the  new  house  upon  the 
avenue." 

"The  price  for  what,  Aunt  Gretchen?  You're 
so  funny!"  Frances  answered. 

"Find  me  funny,  do  you?  More  than  I  can  say 
for  you.  You're  a  pretty  solemn  spectacle,  Mrs. 
Richard  Ward.  The  price  for  what?  The  price 
for  which  you're  trading  Richard's  happiness  and 
much  less  important,  your  own.  Richard,  Frances, 
is  having  a  hard  fight,  in  town,  to  keep  you  going 
and  the  things  you  want  going.  He  won't  tell  you 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  113 

so,  and  he  won't  tell  me  so;  but  I  am  very  wise 
about  some  things  and  I  know  how  he's  fighting. 
It's  costing  more  than  dollars,  Frances — it  is  cost- 
ing blood — his  blood.  And  it's  costing  you  quite 
heavily — you  don't  feel  honest,  do  you?  You're 
deceiving  him  and  changing  your  young  sister  in- 
to just  as  big  a  fool  as  you  are." 

"Now,  Auntie,"  Frances  pouted,  "I  think  you 
might  be  pleasant  when  you  come  to  see  me.  And 
you  ought  to  bear  in  mind  that  I  came  down  here 
for  a  rest." 

"A  rest!  A  rest  from  what?  A  rest  from  too 
much  play.  Do  you  know  the  thing  that  really 
would  rest  you?  .  .  .  Work!"  She  turned  from 
her  with  actual  scorn  bright  in  her  eyes. 

"Clarice,"  she  said  with  definite  determination, 
"pack  up  your  bag.  Take  off  that  foolish  dress. 
No  trunks.  Pack  up  your  bag  with  just  exactly 
what  you  took  when  you  went  from  my  house  and 
get  the  dress  and  hat  on  that  you  wore  away.  You 
are  going  home  with  me  on  the  next  train." 


CHAPTER  VI 

Even  Gretchen  Jans  was  puzzled  when  it  came 
to  saying  what  she  wished  to  say  to  Richard  and 
she  put  it  off  till  Autumn  brought  Frances  from 
the  sea-shore.  The  situation  was  a  hard  one.  Al- 
ready she  had  said  as  much  to  him  about  his  wife 
as  she  believed  that  anyone  had  any  right  to  say 
to  any  husband  about  any  wife.  She  had  told  him 
that  she  thought  her  niece  was  foolishly  extrava- 
gant and  should  be  curbed.  He  had  not  laughed 
at  her,  exactly,  but  had  treated  what  she  told  him 
as  of  no  importance. 

"The  girl's  always  been  a  spendthrift,  from  the 
minute  she  was  old  enough  to  throw  a  penny  to 
a  drunken  beggar.  I  don't  object  to  giving — but 
I  never  give  to  beggars  and  I  surely  never  give  to 
drunken  beggars.  I  don't  wholly  blame  her,  but — 
In  the  old  days  when  her  parents  were  alive  and 
tried  to  live  as  best  they  could  on  what  VanZandt 
earned  with  his  brush  and  palette,  he  used  to  laugh 
and,  sometimes,  actually  go  without,  if  Frances, 
given  money  to  go  to  some  store  to  buy  the  supper, 
came  home  with  only  part  of  it  and  showed  a  rib- 
bon which  she'd  bought  for  her  own  self  with  half 
of  what  she'd  been  supposed  to  use  to  buy  the  food 
for  them  to  eat." 

"You're  too  hard  on  her,"  said  Richard.  "And, 
besides,  you  say,  yourself,  that,  then,  you  laughed 
at  her." 

"I  didn't  say  /  laughed.     I  didn't.     That  was 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  115 

one  reason  why  her  father  never  liked  me  and  my 
sister  thought  I  was  a  brute  in  petticoats." 

During  the  weeks  that  followed  Ward  had  oc- 
casion to  remember  this  short  talk.  At  the  time  it 
had  not  much  impressed  him;  none  of  the  Aunt's 
warnings  did.  As  she  had  hinted  that  she  realized 
there  were  too  many  of  them.  Money,  too,  was 
coming  more  easily,  and,  while  he  could  not  pay  all 
the  old,  he  managed  to  keep  well  abreast  of  cur- 
rent bills,  although  they  continually  grew.  He 
was  doing  well,  and  the  rapidity  with  which  his 
profits  counted  up  made  him  indulgent  of  ihs 
wife's  tendency,  although,  more  as  a  tribute  to  his 
admiration  and  his  confidence  in  Gretchen  Jans 
than  because  he  thought  it  necessary,  he  once  more 
asked  her  to  be  careful  about  using  money  with 
too  great  a  freedom.  The  occasion  for  it  was 
the  arrival  from  the  smartest  jeweler's  in  town  of 
somewhat  startling  bills  for  turquoise  fol-de-rols. 
She  countered  very  quickly. 

"Why,  Dick,"  she  said,  with  her  big,  earnest 
eyes  fixed  full  on  his,  "I  did  that,  partly,  to  dis- 
prove some  of  the  things  Aunt  Gretchen  has  said 
of  me.  I  wanted  just  to  prove  to  her  that  I  am 
not  so  wholly  selfish  as  she  sometimes  says  I  am. 
I  did  not  buy  those  for  myself,  at  all,  Dick." 

He  gasped  a  little.  The  bill  was  for  a  large 
amount,  and  he  could  not  quite  see  the  logic  of  her 
thought  that  he  would  be  more  likely  to  approve 
of  it  if  the  expenditure  had  been  for  someone 
other  than  herself. 

"For  whom,  then,  did  you  buy  them?"  he  in- 
quired. 


n6  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"I  bought  them  for  Clarice,"  she  answered,  al- 
most with  an  air  of  triumph.  "Turquoises  are  not 
becoming  to  me  in  the  least.  That  surely  wasn't 
selfish!" 

"Well,  dear,  perhaps  we'd  better  be  a  little  care- 
ful about  spending  such  large  sums,  even  for  our 
little  sisters,"  he  said  gravely.  "In  the  first  place 
it  was,  really,  a  great  deal  to  be  spent  for  orna- 
ments, just  now,  when  the  house  is  eating  so  much 
money,  and,  in  the  second,  I'm  not  sure  that  such 
things  do  Clarice  much  good.  You  must  remember, 
Frances,  that  Aunt  Gretchen  won't  be  likely  to 
give  Clarice  much  money — that  is  not  her  way — " 

"I  should  rather  think  it  wasn't !" 

"And  it  may  be  she  may  not  marry  money.  Per- 
haps it  would  be  just  as  well  for  us  to  be  a  little 
careful  about  getting  her  into  the  habit  of  rich 
jewels  and  such  things.  It  might  be  kindness  to 
Clarice,  herself." 

"You're  getting  so  you  talk  exactly  as  Aunt 
Gretchen  does,"  said  Frances,  pouting. 

They  were  at  the  breakfast-table  in  their  apart- 
ment when  this  conversation  took  place  and  it  was 
interrupted  by  the  ringing  of  the  telephone,  which, 
at  breakfast,  Richard  always  had  convenient  to  his 
hand.  There  were  likely  to  come  early  calls  from 
down-town  concerning  the  day's  business. 

'Hello,"  said  he.    "What  is  it?" 

"Crane  and  Douglass'  man.  He  wishes  to  see 
Mrs.  Ward,  sir." 

Richard  put  his  hand  on  the  transmitter  and 
turned  to  Frances.  "Do  you  want  to  see  the  deco- 
rator's man?"  he  asked.  "They're  probably  just 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  n7 

bothering  you  so  that  they  may  charge  visits  in 
the  bill,  the  way  a  doctor  does.  Everything  has 
been  completely  settled  as  to  what  they  are  to  do." 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  she,  and  smiled  at  him  delight- 
edly. "I  do  want  to  see  him,  very  much."  Then 
the  smile  dimmed  a  little.  "But  perhaps  he'd 
better  come  a  little  later." 

Richard,  though,  was  curious.  "What  is  it, 
dear?  What  is  there  to  talk  about  with  him?" 

She  pouted,  though  her  smile  'still  lingered. 
"Mustn't  be  inquisitive,"  said  she.  "It's  a  surprise 
for  you." 

He  went  down  town  a  bit  worried.  The  visit  of 
the  man,  while  he  was  in  the  very  act  of  urging 
her  to  exercise  economy  and  her  subsequent  eva- 
sion of  her  questioning,  were  worrisome.  Things 
were  running  into  money  faster  even  than  his  not- 
able success  would  warrant.  He  hoped  that  she 
had  not  planned  more  large  expenditures. 

The  idea  was  so  bothersome  that,  after  he  had 
reached  the  offiice,  he  called  her  on  the  wire. 

"Frances,  dear,"  he  said,  as  gently  as  he  could, 
"I've  been  a  little  worried  about  Crane  and  Doug- 
lass' man." 

"What  has  he  done  to  worry  you?"  she  asked, 
and  he  could  tell  that  she  was  puzzled. 

"No;  I  mean  about  his  calling  at  the  house,  this 
morning.  You  know  I  asked  you  not  to  order  any 
more  expensive  changes  in  the  house.  That  bill 
for  all  that  satin  tapestry  on  your  boudoir  came  in 
this  morning,  and  it's  just  a  little — er — er — stag- 
gering. I  wouldn't  say  a  word,  dear,  if  it  wasn't 
just  about  as  transient  as  it  is  expensive — that  stuff. 


n8  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

It  will  need  to  be  renewed  within  a  year,  you 
know." 

"Oh,"  said  she,  her  voice  drooping  with  a  dis- 
appointment that  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  a 
brute.  "I  thought  you'd  like  to  have  me  have  the 
hangings  something  I  would  like  and  that  would 
fit  me,  Richard.  That  old  rose  we  had  on  first — 
why,  when  I  stepped  into  that  room  it  made  me 
look  as  sallow — " 

"If  you'd  only  thought  about  that  at  the  start, 
before  we  had  it  hung,"  said  he. 

"But,  Dicky  dear,  how  could  I  tell,  beforehand, 
that  it  would  make  me  look  like  an  old  woman? 
Positively  like  a  grandmother!" 

"Well,  it's  done,  now,  anyway,"  said  he.  "But 
after  this — and  Crane  and  Douglass'  man,  this 
morning — well,  you  know,  dear,  I'm  a  little  wor- 
ried by  the  bills,  and — " 

"Oh,  that  man  this  morning!  That  was  some- 
thing that  you  will  approve,"  said  she  and  in  her 
voice  was  such  a  ring  of  positive  conviction,  such 
an  accent  of  real  pleasure  that  he  smiled,  there  at 
the  distant  end  of  the  long  wire. 

"Well?"  he  said  inquiringly,  expecting  her  to 
make  it  clear. 

"It's  a  surprise,"  said  she.  "And  Dicky  mustn't 
ask  a  single  question.  I  can't  tell  you  any  more 
than  that.  It's  something  that  you  will  approve — 
that  will  delight  you." 

Still  smiling,  although  he  flinched  a  little,  fear- 
ful that  she  might  be  wrong  about  his  liking  it; 
he  hung  up  the  telephone  and  turned  back  to  meet 
the  business  problems  of  the  day.  They  were  ela- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  119 

borate  and  bothersome,  as  ever,  nowadays.  The 
new  house  had  been  draining  him  beyond  his  wild- 
est dreams  of  the  capacity  of  such  things  to  de- 
mand. Sometimes  he  almost  wished  he  had  not 
been  so  willing  to  begin  on  it,  that  year.  He  told 
himself  that  had  he  known  how  greatly  it  would 
eat  into  his  capital  he  would  have  waited  till  that 
capital  was  larger.  Phil  Cartwright  had  advised 
that — still,  Frances  had  been  anxious  not  to  wait. 
Life  in  an  apartment  seemed  to  worry  her.  She 
had  felt  certain  she  would  be  much  happier  when 
she  had  a  whole  house  to  look  after.  It  would 
keep  her  busy,  she  had  told  him,  to  attend  to  it, 
busy  with  the  sort  of  thing  which  she  was  sure  she 
would  enjoy.  In  the  apartment  everything  was 
done  by  the  complete  and  complex  system  which 
has  been  devised  to  lift  all  the  humdrum  details  of 
existence  from  the  shoulders  of  the  prosperous  in 
New  York  city.  If  she  so  much  as  made  sugges- 
tions, she  complained,  (and  did  it  with  such  charm- 
ing little  wrinkles  in  her  forehead  that  he  laughed 
at  them  and  kissed  them,  to  dispel  them),  they 
always  made  her  feel  that  she  was  interfering.  It 
had  pleased  him.  It  had  seemed  to  indicate  to  him 
that,  possibly,  her  serious  interest  in  life  was  grow- 
ing, and,  although  he  scarcely  would  admit  it  to 
himself,  he  had  discovered  that  a  total  lack  of  it, 
even  in  the  loveliest  and  most  emphatically  pettable 
creature  ever  born  is  wearisome. 

This  thought  that,  finally,  Frances  was  really 
beginning  to  see  other  than  life's  lightest  aspects, 
had  been,  he  realized,  what  had  made  him  so  en- 
tirely willing  to  foster  every  sign  of  interest  she 


120  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

showed  in  the  new  house,  although  the  cost  was 
high — so  high,  in  fact,  that,  more  than  once,  it 
had  alarmed  him. 

He  was  interrupted  in  his  not  entirely  pleasant 
reveries  by  a  boy  with  mail.  Lying  at  the  top  of 
the  large  packet  marked  as  "Personal,"  was  a 
letter  addressed  in  rambling,  boyish  script.  He 
recognized  it,  instantly,  as  Monty's  hand.  He 
loved  his  brother  with  exaggerated  ardor,  perhaps 
because  the  boy  so  frankly  worshipped  him  as  the 
epitome  of  all  life  held  of  manliness,  success,  de- 
sirable maturity  in  all  things.  He  had  been  more 
than  Monty's  brother — he  had  been  his  parents, 
too,  to  all  intents  and  purposes. 

The  boy  had  done  magnificently  at  Yale,  and 
now,  as  his  first  days  of  relaxation  from  the  strain 
were  losing  novelty,  Richard  found  the  keenest 
pleasure  in  observing  that  he  had  the  love  of  Work 
ingrained  in  him.  He  took  the  keenest  pleasure 
in  devising  plans  for  starting  him  upon  the  proper 
track  in  business  life.  He  wished  the  lad  to  have 
as  many  of  the  chances  he  had  missed  as  could  be 
given  to  him ;  he  schemed,  continually,  to  find  ways 
of  teaching  him,  without  his  knowing  that  he  still 
was,  in  a  way,  at  school,  the  dangers  of  the  pitfalls 
into  which  his  own  unguided  feet  had  blundered, 
not  only  in  commercial  life,  but  along  other  lines. 

But  as  he  read  the  letter  a  slight  frown  grew 
upon  his  face,  although  he  was  unconscious  of  it. 
An  office-man  looked  in,  with  papers  for  examina- 
tion and  planning  to  discuss  vacation  plans  with 
him,  but,  seeing  his  expression,  hurriedly  withdrew 
with  both  the  papers  and  the  plans. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  121 

Monty's  letter  was  a  rambling,  boyish  scrawl, 
full  of  his  ambitions  to  "get  busy,"  as  he  phrased 
it,  as  soon  as  he  could  end  his  visit  to  the  chum 
whom  he  had  gone  to  see  as  soon  as  he  had  left 
the  seashore.  He  did  not  even  wish,  he  said,  to 
"take  the  balance  of  the  summer  off,"  but  wanted 
to  "hunch  down  to  work  with  all  his  shoulder- 
muscles  tightened  and  his  back  bent  for  the  strain," 
the  very  day  that  he  got  back  to  town. 

"It's  me,"  he  wrote,  "  for  active  industry,  in- 
stanter.  The  activ-er  and  indust-er  and  instant-er 
the  better.  Please  let  me  at  'em,  Dick,  I  have  a 
hunch  to  hustle." 

The  letter  not  entirely  like  him,  after  all,  and  it 
puzzled  Richard  Ward.  Monty  was  a  youth  who 
loved  his  friends,  who  loved  his  sports,  and,  some- 
times, loved  plain  loafing.  Such  frantic  longing 
for  such  desperate  endeavor  seemed  unnatural. 
The  boy  wished,  it  seemed,  to  have  a  place  found 
for  him  in  the  office  without  any  wait,  whatever. 
He  did  not  even  want  to  take  the  week  which 
would  be  necessary  if  he  should  accept  an  invita- 
tion from  a  pal  to  join  him  on  the  long-distance 
race  of  his  sea-going  motor-boat.  No;  Monty 
yearned  for  work  at  once,  and  work  at  quite  the 
hardest  task  Dick  could  find  for  him — the  task 
which,  he  explained,  would  soonest  teach  him  all 
about  the  habits  of  the  animals  he  hoped  to  be  the 
greatest  trainer  of  since  Jay  Gould,  First,  the  Wall 
Street  Bostock — bulls  and  bears. 

"What's  happened  to  the  kid?"  the  elder  brother 
asked  himself  as  he  read  four  or  five  crowded 
pages  of  this  thought,  repeated  in  a  dozen  ways. 


122  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Then,  as  he  saw  that  he  was  coming  to  the  let- 
ter's end,  he  thought  he  got  a  hint  of  what  the 
animating  impulse  was.  Monty  somewhat  stiffly, 
and  with  one  or  two  erasures,  poured  out,  here, 
his  admiration  of  Clarice. 

The  thing  was  a  real  shock  to  Richard  Ward. 
Monty,  his  little  brother  Monty,  was  seriously  very 
much  in  love,  and  with — Clarice  ! 

For  five  minutes  more  he  sat  there  and  again  the 
clerk  who  peered  in  through  the  door  decided  not 
to  interrupt  him.  On  his  face  there  was  a  strange 
expression  which  the  clerk  had  never  seen  before; 
it  very  plainly  would  be  a  fatal  moment  to  inquire 
about  vacations.  In  Ward's  mind  there  was  a 
whirl  of  worry  of  a  sort  which  he  had  not  known 
in  the  past. 

Suddenly  it  had  burst  upon  him  that  he  would 
not  wish  for  Monty  just  the  sort  of  married  life 
which  he  was  finding  his  to  be.  Suddenly  he  shrank 
from  the  idea  of  subjecting  the  bright  youngster  to 
the  constant  strain  of  worry,  desperate  endeavor, 
small  reward  which  made  his  own  existence — 

He  had  almost  told  himself  that  it  was  making 
his  existence  miserable,  but  he  did  not  go  that  far 
— that  is,  he  fought  the  word  back,  after  it  had 
flashed  into  his  brain,  and  would  not  let  it  stand 
as  an  expression  of  his  actual  feelings.  Miserable? 
He  was  not  miserable !  He  would  not  admit  so 
vicious  an  expression. 

Yet,  as  he  sat  there,  pondering  on  his  little 
brother's  letter,  his  deep  soul  knew  well  that  that 
had  been  the  very  word  which  really  would  best 
express  what  he  was  feeling.  He  was  tired  from 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  123 

the  strain  of  making  money,  money,  money.  No 
matter  what  great  sums  he  won,  always  was  there 
a  demand  for  more.  And  what,  in  actual  fact,  had 
he  received  for  it?  He  was  building  a  great  house 
— but  would  it  be  a  home?  Not,  certainly,  the 
sort  of  home  which  he  had  pictured  in  ten  thou- 
sand reveries  before  he  married.  That  home  had 
been  a  place  for  him  and  for  the  wife  who  shared 
it  with  them — absolutely  theirs,  exclusive,  full  of 
comfort,  full  of  rest,  a  sweet  confessional  in  which 
to  pour  one's  soul  out  into  sympathetic  ears.  Small, 
dusky  rooms,  and  not  too  many  of  them  had  been 
pictured  in  his  dreams;  an  open  fire  or  two,  deep 
chairs  (perhaps  a  little  worn  and,  therefore,  full 
of  comfort),  a  pair  of  well-trained  servants,  whose 
chief  usefulness  would  be  to  keep  the  world  away. 
.  .  .  Clarice  was  like  her  sister.  Monty  had 
drawn  pictures,  he  had  not  the  slightest  doubt, 
much  like  those  which  he  had,  himself,  drawn.  He 
wished  the  boy  to  be  completely  happy.  .  .  . 
What  would  be  the  really  kind  thing  for  him  to  do  ? 
Despite  the  clerk,  who,  now,  was  looking  in  so 
often  that  he  had  attracted  his  attention,  he  de- 
cided, then  and  there,  to  send  the  boy  away  upon  a 
journey  which  should  give  him  time  for  thought. 
If,  really,  he  loved  Clarice,  why,  then  he  would, — 
he  could — say  nothing.  Love  was  love.  He  had 
and  did  love  Frances  and  the  person  who  had  tried 
to  influence  him  against  her  through  a  strategy 
planned  to  force  forgetfulness,  or  through  inuendo 
planned  to  change  his  feelings,  would  have  earned 
his  instant  and  lasting  enmity.  He  knew  that. 
His  experience  with  his  best  friend,  Cartwright,  had 


i24  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

been  quite  sufficient  to  convince  him.  Phil  had 
never,  really,  tried  to  stop  his  marriage,  yet  the 
mere  fact  that  he  disapproved,  although  he  tried 
to  hide  the  disapproval,  had  been  enough  to 
threaten  their  old  friendship — a  friendship  which, 
through  all  their  bachelor  days  had  been  the  sweet- 
est thing  that  either  of  them  had  experienced. 

He  could  not  say  to  Monty  that  he  was  endan- 
gering his  happiness  by  letting  himself  fall  in  love 
with  one  who  was  exactly  like  his  wife  in  many 
ways.  It  would  be  a  liberty  unwarranted,  even  to 
an  elder  brother  and  it  would  be  a  tremendous 
criticism  of  his  wife.  He  frowned  almost  fiercely. 
It  would  be  doing  what  Aunt  Gretchen  had  done 
so  persistently  and  often  that  it  had  almost  made 
him  dislike  her!  But  he  would  give  the  boy  a 
chance — he  would  force  a  chance  on  him,  if  neces- 
sary. He  pulled  pad  and  pen  toward  him  and 
wrote : 

Dear  boy: 

I  am  glad  you  feel  so  energetic. 
That's  right.  Be  ambitious.  There  is 
nothing  pays  so  fine  an  interest  as  young 
ambition.  But  you  musn't  be  too  greedy 
for  the  troubles  that  will  come.  Don't 
fear — they'll  come  soon  enough.  You've 
been  working  hard,  at  college,  and  you 
need'nt  buckle  down  to  other  work  with 
such  startling  suddenness  and  speed.  Be- 
fore you  start  to  work  remember — mind 
you,  I'm  going  to  help  you  all  I  can: 
there'll  be  as  good  a  chance  for  you,  here 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  125 

in  my  office,  as  I  possjbly  can  make  for 
you,  and  it  will  be  ready  just  as  soon  as 
you  are  really  ready  for  it — that  there'll 
be  enough  in  years  to  come  to  make  you 
hate  the  thought  of  it.  I  am  sure  of  this, 
although  I  know  there  is  no  laziness  in 
you.  In  that  we  are  alike.  And  it  is 
because  we  are  alike  that  I  am  sure  that, 
on  occasion,  in  your  later  life,  you'll 
loathe  the  thought  of  work — of  the 
eternal  daily  grind  to  turn  out  money, 
money,  money. 

When  Fall  comes  you  may  begin,  but 
not  before,  if  you  please,  Monty.  Take 
a  rest  and  see  a  little  of  the  world.  You 
will  have  small  chance  for  either  after 
you  have  started  in  this  office.  I  am  send- 
ing you  a  check  with  this,  and  I  want  you, 
when  you  get  it,  to  investigate  the  map 
of  Europe,  find  out  what,  on  it,  attracts 
you  most,  and  then  go  down  and  buy 
your  ticket  for  that  dot — with  stop-overs 
at  any  other  dots  which  may  in  minor 
ways  attract.  Come  back  in  the  autumn. 
Then  you  shall  have  your  chance  to 
tackle  the  Great  Problem.  But  I  want 
you  to  start  off  upon  this  journey  on  the 
first  ship  sailing  after  you  have  finished 
reading  this.  You'll  find  it  fun,  old  man, 
and  later  you  will  find  it  to  have  been  ex- 
tremely useful.  Run  along  now;  trot  the 
globe,  a  little ;  have  as  good  times  as  you 
can.  I'm  sending  you  enough  so  that  you 


126  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

can  really  see  something,  and  I  know  you 
won't  be  assinine. 

Dick. 

P.S.  Better  not  come  to  New  York,  at 
all.  I'm  buried  to  my  ears  in  worries  of 
one  sort  or  another — business,  you  know : 
the  sort  of  thing  you  are  so  anxious  to 
get  into — and  Frances  is  engaged  from 
morn  till  night  on  the  new  house. 

He  stopped  here,  and  twirled  the  pen  in  fingers, 
which,  as  he  looked  at  them,  he  could  see  were 
just  a  litle  tremulous — not  through  any  momentary 
nervousness:  Monty's  situation  was  not  in  the  least 
acute;  but  one  of  the  results  of  the  tremendous 
overstrain  beneath  which  he  had  been,  of  late 
months,  striving. 

Then  he  took  a  fresh  sheet  and  wrote  on  it : 

"As  for  the  other  matter,  Monty,  (I  can 
read  between  the  lines,  you  see),  I 
wouldn't  think  about  such  things  for  a 
few  years.  You're  young — exceedingly: 
much  younger  than  you  think — and 
Clarice  is  a  mere  child." 

He  sealed  the  letter  in  an  envelope,  addressed 
it,  stamped  it  and  rang  for  the  boy  to  come  and 
mail  it;  but,  as  he  came,  he  tore  it  open,  threw  the 
envelope,  fresh  stamp  and  all  into  the  basket 
(whence  the  keen-eyed,  thrifty  Irish  lad  recovered 
it  at  once,  took  out  the  added  sheet  on  which  his 
words  about  Clarice  were  written,  tore  it  into  mi- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  127 

nute  particles  and  threw  them,  in  their  turn  into 
the  basket.  Then  he  sealed  the  letter  in  another 
envelope,  re-addressed  and  -stamped  it  and  gave 
it  to  the  boy. 

"Take  that  to  the  chute,  yourself,"  he  said. 

The  anxious  clerk  would,  then,  no  longer  be 
denied,  but  hurried  in  with  many  papers  and  much 
important  talk, — blinds  all  of  them,  in  his  mind, 
to  the  discussion  of  vacation.  Soon  Richard  had 
forgotten  everything — the  new  house,  Frances, 
Monty  and  Clarice,  in  the  absorption  of  the  grind 
which,  although  he  did  not  realize  it,  quite,  was 
grinding  grist  for  them,  alone.  Frances,  the  new 
house,  Clarice  and  Monty — they  were  the  burdens 
he  must  carry.  Strain,  struggle,  strive  he  must  to 
carry  them,  for  they  were  very  heavy  burdens, 
much  heavier  than  he  realized,  although  his  back 
was  finally  beginning  to  ache  wofully  beneath  the 
overpowering  weight. 

Monty,  when  the  time  came,  did  not  seem  to 
think  much  of  the  European  plan,  but  at  lengtn 
— the  "length"  was  very  largely  in  his  face,  too — 
departed  on  a  journey  which  was  to  take  nine 
months. 


CHAPTER  VII 

The  dead  heat  .of  August  came  and  made  the 
city  gasp.  Frances  and  Clarice  were  out  of  town, 
much  of  the  time,  and  Richard  saw  little  of  Aunt 
Gretchen  or  Phil  Cartwright.  Most  of  his  even- 
ings, when,  even  after  hours,  he  was  not  busy  with 
the  work  of  making  money,  were  club-spent  or 
devoted  to  the  open  surface  cars.  A  giant  of  the 
street  had  told  him  about  open  surface-cars  as 
cures  for  some  of  the  ills  which  come  from  too 
tight  application  to  the  problems  Wall  street  offers 
to  its  devotees. 

"You  see  life,  there,  uncooked,"  he  had  explained 
to  him.  "You'll  find  it  a  rare  sight." 

Richard  was  too  tired  to  so  much  as  smile  at  his 
friend's  pun,  but  he  tried  out  his  prescription  and 
he  found  it  good.  Once  or  twice  he  went  on  long 
rides  with  the  man,  himself,  and  it  astonished  and 
amused  him  to  observe  this  master  of  uncounted 
money  watching  with  the  keenest  intdrest  the  love 
affairs  of  clerks,  who  crowded  tight  against  their 
sweethearts  on  inside-end  seats  and  planned  with 
them,  in  whispers  when  the  car  was  silent  and  in 
shouts  when  it  was  running,  the  future  which  they 
were  to  share.  Once  he  caught  a  half-hour's  con- 
versation between  sweethearts,  which  held  him  in 
a  closer  fascination  than  a  play  could  have. 

Their  marriage,  it  appeared,  was  close  at  hand. 
The  youth  was  arguing  for  a  flat  up  in  the  Bronx 
which  rented  for  thirty  dollars. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  129 

"No,  the  maiden  said,  "we  can't  afford  to  pay 
that  much." 

"A  man,"  the  youth  replied,  with  grandeur, 
"can  spend  a  quarter  of  his  income  on  his  rent 
and—" 

"Not  and  save,"  the  girl  said,  interrupting,  "and 
if  we  don't  save  we'll  like  as_not  get  fighting.  I've 
been  watching  folks  and — *' 

"Money  isn't  everything,"  the  young  man  chided. 

"No;  that's  right;  it  ain't,"  she  answered,  "but 
the  few  things  that  it  ain't  can  mostly  be  bought 
with  it.  Now,  Jim,  don't  you  get  gay  and  plan  to 
have  your  wad  spent  Saturday  noons,  five  hours 
before  you  get  it.  We're  going  to  save,  Jim,  you 
can  bet  on  that,  and  so  we'll  take  that  cheap  flat — 
the  one  at  twenty  two.  Gee,  I  wish  I  knew  where 
we  could  find  one  for  fifteen!  You  won't  be  in 
it,  only  evenings.  It's  a  darned  sight  better,  Jim, 
than  what  we  either  of  us  have  got  now." 

"But  you'll  be  in  it  all  day  long!" 

"Well,  if  I  get  cramps  because  it's  small  I'll 
cure  'em  with  a  little  think  about  the  bank-roll 
growing." 

Ward  was  sorry  when  they  left  the  car  at  a 
near  corner.  He  would  have  liked  to  hear  more  of 
their  talk. 

"That  chap,"  he  caught  himself  reflecting,  "is 
going  to  be  a  very  happy  man." 

Instantly  his  mind  turned  back  upon  himself  in 
sharp  reproach.  It  had  been  another  mind  which 
had  commented — his  sub-conscious  mind —  and  he 
felt  guilty,  felt  as  if  it  had  insulted  Frances,  for, 
undoubtedly,  it  had  compared,  in  a  swift  survey, 


130  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

this  poor  girl,  who  probably  was  now,  before  her 
marriage,  selling  ribbons  in  some  cheap  depart- 
ment store,  with  his  own  wife.  While  the  shop 
girl  urged  her  "steady"  to  take  the  cheaper  of  two 
flats,  so  that  they  might  achieve  a  "bank-roll," 
Frances  was  arranging  for  his  own  removal  from 
the  elegant,  extravagant  and  comfortless  apart- 
ment they  abode  in,  now,  to  the  more  elegant, 
more  expensive,  and,  he  feared  with  all  his  soul, 
more  comfortless  establishment  which  she  had  real- 
ly compelled  him  with  a  soft  force  but  an  irresis- 
tible, to  erect  upon  the  Avenue.  While  the  shop- 
girl was  restraining  her  young  man  and  planning 
for  his  quick  establishment  of  a  "fat  bank-roll," 
Frances  was  continually  spending  more  and  more 
and  then  yet  more  of  the  great  sums  of  money 
which  were  coming  in,  as  the  result  of  his  tremen- 
dous and  nerve-racking  efforts,  and  still  had  to  be 
restrained  to  keep  her  from  an  even  greater  lavish- 
ness. 

"  That  chap,"  he  said  again,  "is  going  to  be  a 
very  happy  man." 

He  had  gone,  by  this  time,  to  the  Battery,  upon 
a  Lexington  Avenue  car,  and,  leaving  it  there  at 
the  route's  end,  boarded  another  car,  uptown 
bound,  without  observing,  without  caring,  what  line 
it  might  ply  on.  As  it  journeyed  northward  he 
paid  small  attention  to  the  streets  it  traversed,  but, 
suddenly,  when  it  swung  around  a  curve  abruptly, 
he  caught  an  angling  glimpse  of  the  illuminated 
cross  upon  the  church  near  his  old  quarters.  A 
moment"  later  and  the  car  was  clanging  through  a 
romping  crowd  of  children,  overflowing  from  the 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  131 

park  and  playing  just  before  the  door  by  which,  for 
years,  he  and  Phil  had  entered  their  dingy,  but, 
it  seemed  to  him,  this  evening,  most  delightful  old 
apartment.  He  craned  his  neck  as  he  went  by  and 
saw  that,  in  the  upper  windows,  out  of  which,  so 
many,  many  nights,  he  had  looked  upon  the  queer, 
contradictory  crowds  which  thronged  the  square, 
bright  lights  were  burning.  He  was  astonished, 
and  perhaps,  a  bit  ashamed,  to  find  that  in  his 
heart  there  stirred  a  thrill  of  homesickness.  They 
had  been  fine  old  quarters — those  dingy,  littered 
rooms,  and,  in  a  way,  he  had  been  very  happy 
there  with  silent,  understanding  Phil — the  old 
hard-head!  He  wondered  who  the  chaps  were 
there,  this  evening,  and  if,  some  day,  they  would 
abandon  them,  as  he  had,  with  the  idea  that  they 
would  be  happier — 

He  caught  himself  up  short,  again.  Too  often, 
lately,  he  had  to  catch  himself  up  short,  that  way. 

At  the  corner  of  the  square  he  left  the  car  and 
strolled  over  to  Aunt  Gretchen's.  He  was  aston- 
ished to  find  Phil  there,  still  more  astonished  when, 
not  long  after  his  arrival,  he  departed,  almost  as 
if  he  wished  to  certainly  go  off  soon  enough  so 
that  there  would  not  be  a  question  of  their  start- 
ing off  in  company  and  thus  being  forced  into  a 
conversation  certain  to  be  intimate. 

"Phil's  looking  well,"  he  said,  when  he  had 
gone,  trying  not  to  show  that  he  was  hurt  a  little. 

"You're  not." 

"No?  I'm  feeling  well  enough.  The  summer 
heat  has  told  on  me  a  little,  possibly.  Haven't 
stuck  my  nose  out  of  the  city  once  this  summer." 


132  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  always  there  is  something  to  detain  me." 

"Business  good?" 

"Why,  yes;  as  good  as  can  be  looked  for  at 
this  time  of  year." 

"New  house  is  crowding  you  a  little,  eh?" 

"Oh,  of  course;  it  is  a  big  investment." 

"Bigger  than  you  counted  on,  a  good  deal, 
Richard,  isn't  it?" 

"There  have  been  some  extras." 

"I've  been  afraid  there  would  be  more  than  you 
expected." 

"Building  always  costs  more  than  a  man  ex- 
pects. You've  seen  it,  lately,  have  you?" 

"Yes;  I've  seen  it.  And,  Richard,  I  could  see 
a  great  big  *W'  on  it  a  half-a-block  away." 

"A — V?"  said  Richard,  puzzled,  trying  to  re- 
member any  detail  of  the  architect's  expensive  and 
extensive  drawings  which  had  provided  for  the 
use  of  his  initial  anywhere  upon  the  structure. 
"For  'Ward,'  you  mean?  Where  was  it?" 

"No,"  said  Aunt  Gretchen,  with  a  snap  of  her 
firm  lips,  "for  'waste' — and  it  was  everywhere. 
Wasted  money,  wasted  effort,  wasted  mind  and 
soul  and  body.  I  don't  like  your  new  house,  Rich- 
ard." 

He  had  thought  she  might  be  critical — the  new 
house  represented  Frances  and  she  was  ever  criti- 
cal of  whatever  represented  Frances.  But  he  had 
not  looked  for  utter  condemnation. 

"I — am  sorry,"  he  said  slowly. 

"You're  not  as  sorry,  now,  as  you  are  going  to 
be,  I  am  afraid,"  she  answered.  "For  a  million- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  133 

alre  that  house  might  be  all  well  enough;  for  you, 
it  is  all  wrong." 

"I'm  going  to  be  a  millionaire." 

"Not  while  that  Initial  represents  that  word  and 
while  that  word  stands  for  the  most  important 
thing  about  your  life,  you're  not.  I  don't  mean 
that  I  don't  wish  you  well.  I  hope  you'll  be  a  mil- 
lionaire." 

But  her  face  and  manner  as  she  said  the  words 
did  not  exactly  indicate  that  she  believed  the  hope 
would  be  realized. 

He  rose  to  go,  not  quite  offended,  but  depressed. 
Everything,  it  seemed,  must,  nowadays,  occur  to 
add  to  his  depression.  "You're  as  bad  as  the 
young  couple !"  he  exclaimed  and  tried  to  smile  at 
her  as  if  she  had  not  worried  him. 

"What  couple?" 

"Oh,  nobody;  a  couple  on  the  street  car.  I  must 
run  along.  I've  been  thinking  about  Phil.  I'll 
look  him  up,  I  think." 

"Don't  go;  sit  down.  I  want  to  talk  to  you,  al- 
though I  don't  believe  I  am  good  company." 

Reluctantly  he  sat  down  upon  the  hair-cloth  sofa 
which  his  wife  detested  so.  As  he  felt  its  slippy 
surface  under  him  he  did  not  wonder  at  her  hat- 
red of  it;  as  he  looked  about  the  dull  and  heavy 
room  he  did  not  wonder  that  the  whole  environ- 
ment hurt  her  almost  to  the  point  of  actual  agony, 
as  she  had  often  said  it  did.  Aunt  Gretchen  saw 
his  glance  rove  here  and  there. 

"You  don't  like  it,  Richard,  do  you?  Well,  it 
isn't  up-to-date ;  but  I  can  tell  you  something  which 
may  make  it  seem  a  little  better  to  you — maybe, 


134  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

maybe  not.  It  was  paid  for,  Richard,  when  we 
bought  it,  for  we  did  not  buy  it  till  we  had  the 
money  in  the  bank  to  draw  on.  There  was  never 
one  red  cent  of  debt  upon  our  home." 

He  forced  himself  to  laugh.  It  must  be  either 
that  or  hotly  rising  wrath.  "Aunt  Gretchen,"  he 
said  carefully,  "you're  hard  to — well,  to — " 

"Hard  to  bear,  sometimes,  you  mean,  do  you? 
Yes;  I  presume  I  am.  If  I  didn't  like  you,  though, 
you'd  never  have  the  chance  to  bear  me.  That's 
what  I  used  to  tell  your  wife  when  she  got  aggra- 
vated over  things.  But — tell  me  something  of  your 
business.  Tell  me  what  you're  buying,  these  days. 
Tell  me  what  you're  selling,  too.  I've  talked 
'street'  with  several,  of  late." 

The  change  of  subject  saved  his  nerves.  He 
laughed.  "You  always  have  talked  'street'  with 
several.  I  only  wish  the  'several'  that  you  talk 
'street'  to  would  only  talk  to  me  as  franky." 

"I  don't  want  to  harp,  now,  Richard,  but  they 
won't,  not  while  you're  building  houses  that  you 
can't  afford.  You  may  be  sure  of  that.  That 
house  will  close  a-many  mouths  to  you.  But  go  on, 
tell  me  what  you  have  been  doing." 

He  bit  his  lips  but  laid  his  deals  before  her.  His 
operations  did  not  seem  to  rouse  her  commendation 
as  he  had  believed  they  would.  It  disappointed 
him  a  little. 

"Who  knows  you're  buying  on  those  lines?"  she 
asked. 

"We've  kept  it  very  quiet." 

"I  would." 

"We  shall.     I'm  going  down  the  coast,  tomor- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  135 

row,  to  get  Frances.  It  will  be  about  the  only  day 
I  shall  take  off,  this  summer.  She's  been  lonely, 
too,  since  you  took  Clare  away." 

"Yes;  Clare's  told  me  that  a  dozen  times  a  day. 
She  has  been  lonely,  too.  I've  had  two  weeks  of 
hearing  it,  without  a  break,  whenever  I  have  seen 
her.  She  says  it  constantly,  like  a  young  parrot 
asking  for  a  cracker.  But  I  couldn't  leave  her 
there  with  Frances.  I  wonder  if  you  know  just 
why  I  went  and  got  her?" 

"Aunt  Gretchen,  you  say  too  much  against  my 
wife.  I  can't  listen  to  this  steady  stream  of  cri- 
ticism." 

"All  right;  don't  blame  you.  But  the  reason  I 
went  after  Clare  may  interest  you.  Monty,  when 
he  came  from  school,  went  down  to  see  them  and 
came  back  with  bulging  eyes  because  of  Clare's  ex- 
traordinary dresses.  She  didn't  have  such  very 
wondrous  dresses  when  she  left  here,  so  I  went  to 
see  what  he  had  seen.  I  saw,  all  right,  and  then — 
I  brought  her  home.  She's  angry.  I  half  think 
the  child's  got  so  she  actually  hates  me,  but  I've 
done  what  I  could  do  to  make  her  sensible. 

"But  we've  drifted  off  the  subject,  haven't  we? 
We  started  to  talk  Wall  Street." 

"We  always  seem  to  drift.  Well,  I've  been  buy- 
ing R.  and  T.  and  buying  very  heavily.  I  have 
reasons  to  believe — " 

She  nodded.  "I  never  speculate,  myself,"  said 
she,  "but  it's  your  business  to,  and  I  should  think 
that  might  be  very  good.  I  saw  the  man  who 
heads  the  market  on  the  other  side,  the  other  day." 

His  lips  compressed  a  little.     He  had  always 


136  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

hated  Suffern  Thorne  and  they  had  been  antago- 
nists too  often  to  allow  the  hate  to  even  cool. 
"You  saw  him?  Where?" 

"He  had  just  brought  Frances  in  from  driving 
in  his  motor.  She  says  it's  a  much  better  motor 
than  the  one  you  hired  for  her,  down  there." 

Her  keen  eyes  watched  him  sharply  as  he  lis- 
tened, but,  by  a  great  effort  of  the  will  (for  he 
was  wholly  conscious  of  her  surveillance)  he  hid 
the  least  sign  of  astonishment  or  of  chagrin,  if  he 
felt  any. 

"That,"  said  she,  and  shut  her  lips  between  each 
little  group  of  words  with  a  tight  snap,  "was  one 
good  reason  for  my  bringing  Clare  away.  I  sup- 
pose you  know,  don't  you,  that  Frances  had  ar- 
rayed her  in  three  trunksfull  of  new  finery." 

'I  knew  that  she  had  bought  some  things  for 
her." 

"Well;  I  didn't — till  your  brother  told  me  of  it. 
Where  is  Monty,  now?" 

"I  sent  him  for  a  litle  run  around  upon  the  other 
side.  Just  out  of  college,  that  way,  it  seemed  right 
that  he  should  have  a  look  at  things  before  he 
buckled  down  to  such  a  grind  as  I  am  tied  to." 

She  nodded.  "I  wonder  if  you  have  more  sense 
than  I  am  giving  you  due  credit  for?"  she  asked. 

"I  was  worried  about  Monty." 

She  actually  smiled.  "Richard,  you  have  made 
me  feel  that  there's  some  hope  for  you.  I  am 
glad  it  worried  you  and  that  you  sent  the  boy  away. 
Clare  worries  me  as  much  as  Frances  does." 

"We  all  have  worries." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  137 

"Monty  is  a  fine,  bright  boy." 

"He  is,  indeed." 

"Take  care  of  him." 

"I'm  going  to,  if  I  can." 

"By  the  way,  have  you  told  Frances  what  your 
operations  are?" 

"I  may  have  mentioned  them." 

"I  wouldn't." 

He  was  near  to  anger,  now,  again.    "Why  not?" 

"Well,  you  know  who's  fighting  you  the  hardest 
on  the  street?  You  know  whose  money's  every- 
where against  you  and  who,  in  his  clammy,  blood- 
less way,  has  sworn  he'd  have  your  scalp,  don't 
you?  Of  course  you  know  whom  I  refer  to, 
Richard." 

"You  mean  Suffern  Thorne  again?"  His  color 
deepened  just  a  little. 

"Yes,  Suffern  Thorne.  Well,  as  I've  told  you 
when  I  went  to  get  Clarice  I  had  to  wait  for  quite 
a  little  while  before  Frances  happened  to  come  in 
from  motoring  with  Suffern  Thorne," 

He  turned  a  really  angry  face  on  her,  this  time. 
"My  dear  Aunt  Gretchen,"  he  said  hotly,  "don't 
go  too  far.  I'd  trust  my  wife  with  anyone  with 
whom  she  cared  to  go.  I  don't  like  Suffern 
Thorne;  but  I  am  not  afraid  that  Frances  will  re- 
veal my  business  secrets,  to  him  or  anybody  elsefl 
She—" 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  her,  myself,  the  way  you 
mean,"  said  she.  "Now  don't  get  snippy,  Richard. 
The  thing  that  worried  me  a  little  was  the  chance 
that  she  might  be  careless,  if  she  knew  what  your 


138  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

line  of  buying  was.  And  if  she  should  talk,  care- 
lessly, it  would  be  bad." 

It  pacified  him  partially.  "She  won't  talk,"  he 
said.  "I  don't  believe  she  would  remember  what  I 
said  about  my  business  long  enough.  It  doesn't 
interest  her,  ever." 

"No,"  was  the  reply,  "it  doesn't  and  that  may 
be  a  real  mercy.  When  are  you  going  to  move?" 

"We're  being  moved  today.  Everything  will  be 
all  settled  by  tomorrow."  He  hailed  the  change 
of  subject  with  relief.  "I  want  to  get  it  over  with 
before  she  comes  up  from  the  seashore." 

"In  my  day,"  Gretchen  Jans  replied,  "when  their 
homes  were  moved  was  when  young  women  were 
most  certain  to  be  there — and  busy." 

Again  he  hid  annoyance  in  a  laugh.  "If  I  don't 
hurry  off,  Aunt  Gretchen,  you  and  I  are  going  to 
have  a  fight." 

"You'd  better  hurry  on,  then,  Richard,  for  I 
shouldn't  want  to  have  a  fight  with  you." 

Aunt  Gretchen  Jans  looked  long  and  solemnly 
at  the  vacant  door-way  after  he  had  passed  through 
it.  When,  finally,  she  let  her  gaze  shift,  it  was 
not  to  look  at  anything  with  definite  interest,  but 
to  let  it  rest  abstractedly  upon  her  hands  which  she 
turned  over  and  then  back  again,  in  turn,  repeated- 
ly, without  once  seeing  them.  She  had  really,  al- 
though he  did  not  dream  it,  been  most  considerate 
of  him — she  had  not  told  him  that  her  niece  had 
spent,  down  at  the  shore,  far  more,  even,  than  the 
generous  allowance  he  made  her,  and  had  bor- 
rowed a  full  thousand  dollars  of  her.  She  had 
let  her  have  the  money  simply  to  save  Richard 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  139 

worry.    Gretchen  Jans'  heart  was  not  wholly  with- 
out soft  spots. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Ward  had  not  realized  how  tired  he  was  until 
he  took  the  boat,  for  Sandy  Hook,  where  he  could 
make  an  advantageous  train-connection  on  his  little 
journey  down  to  get  his  wife  and  bring  her  home 
to  the  new  house.  Then  he  found  that  never  in  his 
life  had  he  been  quite  so  tired — and  nervous. 
The  boat  on  which  he  travelled  leaves  New  York, 
each  week-day  summer  afternoons,  so  timed  as  to 
appeal,  particularly,  to  the  men  of  the  financial 
district.  It  does  not  cater  to  the  general  public 
and  it  has  no  Sunday  schedule.  There  were  on  it 
not  less  than  a  hundred  men  he  knew,  but  he  was 
rather  careful  to  avoid  their  company — their  greet- 
ings, even.  When  Laffan  asked  him  to  make  four 
for  a  few  hands  of  poker  he  refused  him  almost 
curtly. 

His  thoughts  were  full  of  contrasts  of  the  dull 
reality  and  the  bright  forecasts  he  had  made.  To- 
morrow he  would  take  his  young  wife  to  their 
new  house ! 

There  would  be  little  of  the  bounding  joy  which 
he  had  thought  to  feel  on  that  occasion.  The 
building  of  the  house  had  grown  into  a  burden, 
long  ago,  although  he  had  expected  it  to  be  a  vivid 
jay.  Its  furnishing,  which  he  had  thought  would 
be  a  task  which  would  be  carried  to  completion 
through  a  series  of  delightful  consultations  with 
the  woman  whom  he  loved,  and  visits,  in  her  com- 
pany, to  the  great,  fascinating  shops,  had  been,  in- 
stead, accomplished  almost  without  discussion  and 


I4o  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

at  a  cost  which,  when  he  had  cast  a  total  at  his 
desk,  that  morning,  appalled  him.  He  was  in  the 
utterly  anomalous  position  of  a  man  who  finds 
that  he  is  making  twice  as  much  as  he  has  ever 
made  before,  but  finds  his  outgo  trebled.  It  was 
annoying,  it  was  more — it  might  become  embar- 
rassing if  it  did  not  immediately  cease. 

Instead  of  going  to  his  wife  with  an  exultant 
heart  to  lead  her  to  a  new  home  full  of  character, 
and  mutual  thought  and  comfort,  he  was  going  to 
her  full  of  worry,  to  conduct  her  to  a  glittering 
house,  planned  by  a  stranger,  filled  by  strangers 
with  strange  furnishings,  which  he  felt  at  the  start, 
would  never  really  be  a  home  at  all.  He  knew 
now,  that  he  had  not  been  ready  to  assume  a  task 
so  mighty  as  this  residential  enterprise — but,  then 
it  had  not  been  so  mighty  when  he  had  assumed  it. 
Except  the  land  it  stood  on  and  the  grey  stone 
walls,  there  was  little  in  the  structure  now,  which 
had  not  been  elaborated  since  he  had  first  accepted 
the  architect's  designs — elaborated,  always  with  the 
thought  of  high  display,  not  with  the  thought  of 
home-like  comfort. 

But  he  fought  the  growing  sense  of  disappoint- 
ment and  dissatisfaction  down,  as  he  neared  land, 
and  before  the  little  railway  journey  ended,  found 
that  there  would  be  after  all,  much  real  delight  in 
seeing  Frances  after  this  short  separation,  and  that 
he  should  enjoy  the  journey  to  the  new  house  later, 
with  a  real  zest,  after  all.  He  decided  that  he 
would  refrain  from  all  reproaches,  although,  on  the 
way  down,  he  had  been  carefully  deciding  on  how 
best  he  might  express  a  number.  The  only  thing 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  141 

which  he  must  express  which  would  be  sure  to  be 
counted  as  unpleasant,  would  be  his  hope  that 
Frances  would  not  further  interfere  between  her 
aunt  and  Clarice.  To  fail  to  speak  of  this  would 
be  he  felt,  unfair  to  Clarice  herself.  He  was  very 
fond  of  her.  She  was  a  beautiful  and  charming  girl 
who,  now  that  she  was  budding  into  womanhood, 
continually  revealed  new  phases  of  attractiveness. 
He  surely  could  not  blame  Monty  for  loving  her. 
If  only  she  were  not  so  much  like — 

He  brought  his  mind  up  sharply,  for  suddenly 
he  realized  the  words  in  which  his  brain  had  al- 
most phrased  its  criticism  of  the  girl  whom  there 
were  indications  that  his  brother  might,  in  course 
of  time  desire  to  marry.  He  had  almost  let  it  say : 

"If  only  she  were  not  so  much  like  Frances !" 

This  put  him  back  into  a  miserable  frame  of 
mind,  and  thus  he  drove  to  the  hotel;  but  to  his 
great  delight,  a  sharp  reversal  came  with  the  first 
glimpse  of  her. 

She  was  delighted  by  the  sight  of  him — that  was 
very  plain  from  every  line  of  her  appealing  face, 
from  every  eager  motion  of  her  body  as  she  sped 
to  him. 

"Why,  Dick!"  she  cried.  "I  must  be  dreadful- 
ly  in  love  with  you!  I  don't  believe  we  are  old 
married  folks,  at  all.  We  must  be  a  young  bride 
and  groom." 

He  postponed  even  the  one  unpleasant  thing 
which  he  had  planned  to  say  to  her  and  bade  her 
very  gaily  tell  her  maid  to  get  her  luggage  ready 
for  the  trip  to  town.  He  even  smiled  when  that  ex- 
tremely well-trained  servant  whom,  of  late,  he  al- 


142  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

most  had  begun  to  loathe,  appeared  and  greeted 
him  exactly  as  the  perfect  maid  should  greet  the 
master  of  the  household. 

All  his  doubts  about  his  wife's  proper  interest 
in  their  new  home  vanished  when  she  cried  in  rapt- 
ure at  his  brief  descriptions  of  what  had  been  done 
since  she  had  seen  it;  he  could  not  find  it  in  his 
heart  to  criticize  her  once,  as  he  had  planned  to, 
for  the  unwarranted  additions  to  the  cost  of  house 
and  furnishings  which  she  had  made  without  con- 
sulting him.  He  began  to  feel  a  real  resentment 
towardAunt  Gretchen  for  the  state  of  mind  she  had 
aroused  in  him;  even  to  pity  poor  Clarice  because 
she  had  been  forced  to  leave  her  charming  sister 
and  the  pleasant  life  of  the  elaborate  hotel  and  go 
back  to  the  stiff  old  house  upon  the  Square.  Final- 
ly he  found  that  he  was  speaking  very  pleasantly  of 
what  he  feared  was  going  on  in  Monty's  heart. 

"I  think  the  scamp  is  dead  in  love  with  her,  al- 
though he  does  not  really  know  it,  yet,"  he  said. 

"What  fun!"  cried  Frances,  and  he  actually 
nodded. 

But  just  before  the  time  came  for  departure, 
while  they  were  surrounded  by  the  bustle  of  the 
maids  and  porters  who  were  taking  out  the  luggage, 
came  a  slight  reaction. 

"Oh,  I  must  leave  word  for  Mr.  Thome,"  said 
Frances.  "Dick,  you  haven't  any  notion  how  de- 
lightful he  has  been  to  me.  We  have  motored 
every  day.  Without  him  really,  I  think  I  should 
have  died  of  the  monotony." 

His  face  grew  grave  upon  the  instant.  "I  was 
going  to  speak  of  that,  my  dear,"  he  said.  "I'd 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  143 

rather  you  dropped  Thorne.  We  never  have  been 
friends  you  know,  and  lately  he  has  become  my 
bitterest  enemy  in  business.  Besides  he  isn't  quite 
the  kind  of  man  you  ought  to  know — he  surely 
isn't  one  whom  you  should  let  yourself  be  seen  with 
much,  or  even  any  without  me — and  with  me,  I'm 
afraid  there  isn't  much  chance  that  he'll  seek  you." 

She  was  instantly  offended,  although  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  put  the  matter  very  gently. 

"He's  been  very  nice  to  me,"  said  she,,  and 
pouted.  "Don't  you  think  you  are  a  little  incon- 
siderate to  demand — " 

"I'm  not  demanding  dear,  I'm  only  asking  and 
explaining  to  you  why  you  oughtn't  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  him.  The  man  is  not,  in  fact,  at 
all  fit  for  a  lady's  company." 

"He's  always  said  the  nicest  things  of  you — he 
thinks  you  are  so  clever  on  the  Street!  I  think 
you're  most  ungenerous.  I  do  believe  you're 
jealous,  Dick!" 

"Well,  Frances,"  he  replied,  trying  very  hard  to 
keep  his  temper  and  be  gentle  with  her,  as  a  father 
would  be  gentle  with  a  foolish  child,  "I  am  quite 
sure  I  am  quite  right,  and  I'm  as  sure  that  you  will 
do  as  I  have  asked." 

They  heard  the  tinkle  of  the  telephone  out  in  the 
minute  reception-room  of  the  suite.  An  instant 
later  they  heard  Elise  answering  it. 

"It's  Mr.  Thorne,  madame,"  the  maid  said, 
entering.  "He  wishes  to  be  told  if  you  are  ready." 

"Tell  Mr.  Thorne,"  said  Frances  petulantly, 
"that  I'm  very  sorry  I  can't  go  with  him  to-day, 
but  Mr.  Ward  has  just  come  down  to  take  me  to 


144  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

New  York.  Be  sure  to  let  him  know  that  I  am 
ve-ry  sor-ry" 

"Bien,  madame." 

"Dick,  I  think  you're  very,  very  inconsiderate," 
Frances  cried,  as  she  turned  back  to  him.  "Most 

inconsiderate.  Indeed  I  do If  you  are  ready 

I  am.  The  boy  just  said  the  motor — " 

"All  right;  we'll  go  then,"  Richard  answered. 

The  start  of  the  great  journey  to  the  brand-new 
house  was  not  precisely  as  he  had  expected  it  to  be. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

On  the  little  railroad  journey  they  did  not  have 
much  opportunity  for  talk.  The  single  parlor-car 
of  the  gritty  train  was  crowded,  and  their  chairs 
were  not  adjoining.  But  on  the  steamer,  as  they 
cut  swiftly  through  the  Lower  Bay,  the  Narrows, 
and  finally  the  Upper  Bay's  blue,  beautiful  expanse, 
Richard  found  a  place  secluded  by  a  shielding  life- 
boat, where  they  had  more  privacy. 

The  magic  of  her  presence  was  strong  on  him. 
He  had  begun  to  wonder,  too,  if  the  shocked  and 
sorry  pang  her  friendship  for  his  enemy  had  made 
him  feel,  had  not  been  utterly  unreasonable. 

Almost  consciously  against  his  will  he  found 
himself  entranced  anew  by  her  delightful  beauty, 
listened  to  and  owned  himself  afresh  a  captive 
of  the  soft,  caressing  modulations  of  her  voice. 
He  had  (journeyed  to  her  quite  resolved  to 
make  his  feelings  very  plain — and  soon  the  journey 
homeward  would  be  coming  to  an  end  with  not  a 
word  of  criticism  spoken.  He  searched  his  mind 
for  the  set  speech  he  had  decided  on  about  her  mani- 
fold extravagances,  her  inconsideration  in  ordering 
expensive  alterations  in  the  house  without  consult- 
ing him;  his  lips  were  actually  opened  to  begin 
carefully  on  his  reproaches  when  (quite  by  chance: 
he  knew  there  was  no  art  in  it)  she  laid  her  hand 
appealingly  upon  his  sleeve  as  she  enthuisiastically 


146  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

told  him  voluntarily,  as  if  the  thing  was  worthy  of 
his  praise,  how  it  had  happened  that  she  first  had 
thought  of  adding  to  the  carven  wainscoting  of  the 
new  dining-room.  The  shrewd  manager  of  the 
firm  which  had  put  in  the  woodwork  had  taken  to 
her  photographs  of  some  celebrated  European 
dining-room.  Captivated  by  its  dignity  and  charm, 
she  had  herself  gone  to  the  office  of  the  architect 
and  said  that  they  must  have  a  wainscot  like  it. 

It  made  it  very  costly,"  Richard  murmured,  won- 
dering where  the  stern,  unyielding  censure  he  had 
planned  had  vanished  to. 

"Yes;  he  said  it  would  be  costly.  But,  dear,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  we  were  building  not  a  house  to 
sell — to  live  in  for  a  year  or  two  and  then  auction 
to  the  highest  bidder — but  a  house  to  live  in  all— 
our — lives.  I  thought  the  matter  over  and  I  just 
decided  that  my  own  dear  Dicky  Ward  should  have 
the  best  in  his  home,  no  matter  if  an  architect  and 
an  interior  woodwork  stupid  did  try  to  make  me 
let  him  get  along  with  second-best." 

Richard  actually  stammered  when  he  tried  to 
start  an  explanation  of  the  fact  that  the  large  sum 
which  he  had  set  aside  with  which  to  build  the 
house  had  been  long  since  absorbed,  and  that  in 
order  to  be  prompt  in  payment  of  the  unexpected 
bills,  he  had  been  forced  of  late,  to  borrow  fear- 
somely — to  borrow  and  use  money  on  the  house, 
which  if  he  borrowed  for  any  purpose  whatsoever, 
he  should  have  borrowed  for  his  business,  already 
sorely  cramped  by  the  unceasing  demands  for  more 
from  architects  and  contractors. 

He  found  it  quite  impossible  to  reproach  her, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  147 

even  to  emphatically  warn  her.  The  charm  of  her 
fascinating  femininity  had  crept  into  his  blood,  his 
heart,  his  brain.  The  fresh  breeze  from  the  Bay 
caught  up  the  subtle  perfume  of  her  person  and  en- 
wrapped him  in  it.  He  had  not  been  parted  from 
her  for  so  long  a  time  before,  since  they  had  mar- 
ried, and  now  his  whole  soul  thrilled  in  answer  to 
her  mere  propinquity.  Alone,  in  New  York  City, 
pondering  only  on  the  foolish  things  which  she  had 
done,  it  had  been  easy  to  condemn  her,  quite  simple 
to  frame  into  sentences  the  stern  reproaches  he 
would  offer  her.  Here,  at  her  side,  her  great  liquid 
eyes  raised  now  and  then,  to  look  into  his  own  with 
their  child-like  appeal,  her  explanations  of  her 
wanton  waste  of  money  delightful  through  their 
very  lack  of  logic — their  innocence,  it  seemed  to 
him,  now  that  he  was  near  enough  to  feel  the  thrill- 
ing touch  of  her  soft  fingers — he  could  not  force 
the  words  of  criticism  from  his  lips. 

He  imagined  the  expression  which  would  form 
upon  Aunt  Gretchen's  strong,  disgusted  face  if  she 
were  but  witness  of  this  scene  of  his  surrender, 
and — with  a  glance  at  Frances'  tempting  lips  which, 
instantly  he  longed  to  crush  with  kisses — he  smiled. 
He  fancied  how  Phil  Cartwright  would  character- 
ize his  weakness — he  could  see  the  big,  smooth 
face  of  his  old  chum  as  he  listened,  with  thin  lips 
shutting  ever  tighter  on  the  disapproval  which  he 
would  not,  definitely,  voice.  For  an  instant  this 
thought  pained  him,  spurred  him;  then  his  eyes 
wandered  from  the  deck  to  Frances'  dainty  slippers, 
the  glimpse  of  silken  stockings  upon  wondrous 
ankles  just  above  them,  up  along  the  tempting, 


148  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

captivating  curves  of  her  smooth,  graceful  figure 
to  her  face,  her  eyes,  her  lips  all  his,  all  his — her 
lips,  her  lips — and  he  forgot  Phil  Cartwright. 

Then  he  considerel  Suffern  Thorne  in  turn,  and 
the  emphatic  protest  he  had  planned  to  offer  against 
her  friendship  with  his  enemy.  It  was  the  infantile, 
undoubtable  and  quite  undoubted  innocence  of  her 
big  blue  eyes  and  broad,  smooth  brow,  unworried, 
which  killed  his  final  thought  of  further  talk  about 
it. 

"Well,"  he  finally  said,  weakly,  "What's  done 
is  done,"  I  suppose.  "We  can't  help  that,  dear. 
I'm  not  even  going  to  scold  you.  But,  in  the  fu- 
ture—" 

"I'm  so  glad !"  She  snuggled  up  to  him  delight- 
edly, and,  after  a  quick  glance  round  about  to  see 
that  no  one  visible  was  watching  them,  pursed  her 
lips  up,  showing  that  she  really  wished  she  dared 
to  kiss  him.  She  did  venture  far  enough  to  raise 
a  gloved  hand  to  his  cheek,  and  smoothed  it  with 
a  charming  surreptitiousness. 

Involuntarily  he  also,  looked  around.  The  pet- 
ting was  delightful,  but  men  worry  more  about  such 
demonstrations  where  the  public  may  look  on  and 
be  amused  than  women  do.  No  one  could^see  how- 
ever, and  he  settled  back  to  wonderful,  luxurious 
enjoyment  of  her. 

"/  wouldn't  care,"  she  said,  observing  his  swift 
reconnaisance,  "if  all  the  world  should  stare 
through  big  green  goggles,  Dicky.  When  you  are 
so  sweet  and  lovely  I  just  have  to  pet  you,  here 
and  there,  and  let  my  mouth  show  how  it  loves  to 
kiss  you." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  149 

And  so  the  mighty  understanding,  which  he  had 
determined  must  be  reached,  regarding  many 
matters,  came  to  an  abrupt  and  not  impressive  end. 

Not  long  before  the  boat  slowed  down  before 
she  worked  into  her  pier  (for  five  minutes  Frances' 
firm,  caressing  fingers  had  been  pressed  in  frequent, 
loving  little  signals  into  that  arm  of  his  which  was 
concealed  beneath  the  overcoat  he  carried),  she 
seemed  suddenly  to  think  about  another  matter. 

"Do  you  know,  dear,  what  Aunt  Gretchen  did  to 
Clarice?"  she  asked. 

"Why— er — what  did  she  do  to  her?" 

"She  came  down  and  took  her  home  with  her, 
after  the  most  dreadful  scene!  She  said  I  had 
quite  put  you  into  bankruptcy  by  buying  the  poor 
child  a  dress  or  two  to  wear — she  had  absolutely 
nothing  fit,  dear,  I  assure  you! — and  that  she 
wouldn't  leave  her,  for  another  minute,  under  my 
contaminating  influence." 

There  was  another  matter.  He  sat  silent,  al- 
though he  knew  he  should  assure  her  that  he 
thought  Aunt  Gretchen  had  been  right. 

"The  poor  child's  youth  will  go  in  misery,  as 
mine  went,"  said  his  wife,  with  a  pathetic  droop  of 
voice  and  countenance — quite  genuine,  both  of 
them.  "I  don't  think  she  ought  to  live  there,  any 
longer.  It's  too  dreadful.  I — " 

This  really  alarmed  him.  "No;  Frances,"  he 
said  very  firmly,  "I  think  we'd  best  not  interfere 
between  your  aunt  and  Clarice.  Clarice  is  extrava- 
gant, and — " 

"I  know  she  is;  that  was  exactly  what  I  had  in 
mind.  She  needs  someone  who  would  be  kind  in 


i5o  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

teaching  her.  Aunt  Gretchen — why,  she's  some- 
times almost  brutal!  Now  if  Clarice  were  con- 
stantly with  me,  I  could  by  kindness  teach  her  how 
to  be  more  sensible,  without  utterly  destroying  all 
her—" 

But  the  balance  of  her  sentence  perished  before 
the  peal  of  hearty  laughter  which  the  thought 
aroused  in  him. 

"I  think  her  present  teacher  may  accomplish 
more  than  you  would,"  Richard  said,  when  he  had 
sobered. 

"But  Richard,  dear,  the  child  is  miserable.  I'm 
so  sorry  for  her  that — " 

The  boat  was  at  the  dock  and  a  German  baron, 
who  had  been  observing  Yankee  seashore  customs, 
and  writing  home  about  American  bad  manners, 
cut  their  conversation  short  by  ruthlessly  dividing 
them  with  his  suit  case. 

It  was  almost  dark  when,  in  a  taxi,  they  stopped 
before  the  door  of  their  new  home,  to  enter  it  with 
hand  in  hand,  for  the  first  time  since  it  had  been 
finished. 

"Doesn't  it  seem — good — and — sort  of  snug- 
gly!"  she  cried,  as  soon  as  they  were  free  from 
servants'  eyes.  "Dear,  doesn't  it  seem  good?" 

"Yes,  darling,"  he  exclaimed,  "it  does — seem 
very  good." 

"Then  kiss  me,  sweetheart,  and  tell  me  that  you 
do  forgive  your  wicked,  wasteful  little  wife  for 
having  been  so  much  in  love  with  you  and  it  and — 
yes,  oh  yes,  herself! — that  she  just  made  it  every 
bit  as  charming  as  she  could." 

He  pressed  her  tight  to  him  with  his  left  arm 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  151 

while  his  eyes  roved  around  the  softly  lit  and  ex- 
quisite interior. 

"Tell  me !"  she  insisted. 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "Of  course  I  do,  my  dear. 
But,  after  this — " 

"From  now  on,  darling,"  I  shall  make  each 
penny  shriek  from  pinching  before  it  gets  away 
from  me." 

"Do  that  and  we  shall  be  all  right."  He  knew 
that  it  was  weak  to  accept  this  somewhat  off-hand 
promise  of  economy  as  sufficient,  but  since  he  had 
come  again  into  the  influence  of  her  exquisite  sex 
charm,  he  found  the  mere  thought  of  the  lectures 
he  had  planned  to  give  her  quite  abhorrent.  He 
knew  that  he  was  miserably  weak  in  this,  but — 
this  was  their  first  night  together  in  their  wonder- 
ful home !  He  would  say  no  more,  at  any  rate  to- 
night, than  would  barely  save  his  conscience. 

And  she  seemed  to  understand — a  little.  "Well, 
then,"  she  said  prettily,  "I'm  going  to  help.  I'm 
going  to  be  so  c-a-r-e-f-u-l !" 

The  butler  entered  with  respectful  deference. 

"Mr.  Cartwright,  'e  's  bean  hon  the  'phone,  sir, 
twice,  sir,  lately.  Hif  'e  calls  hagain  shall  Hi  hin- 
form  'im  that  you're  'ere?" 

"Yes,  certainly." 

"Phil  Cartwright!"  Frances  said.  "I  am  afraid 
I  don't  quite  like  some  of  my  Dicky's  friends." 

"I've  had  to  ask  him  to  take  charge  of  things  a 
little  for  me,"  Richard  answered.  "They  were 
getting  so  confused  that — " 

"He  won't  be  at  the  house  much,  will  he?" 

"Sometimes;  but  mostly  at  the  office." 


1 52  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Well  anyway,  in  this  house  I  won't  have  to  see 
him  if  I  don't  feel  like  it,  will  I?  It's  so  big — so 
nice  and  big!  Isn't  it  heaps  better  than  the  best 
apartment  that  was  ever  built,  Dick  dear?" 

"Yes,  darling." 

"And,  even  if  I've  worried  you  by  spending  too 
much  money,  you'd  rather  have  me  here  in  it  with 
you  than  any — other — woman — in — the  world. 
Now  wouldn't  you?" 

"Than  any  other  woman  in  the  world." 

"I  must  have  Clarice  up  in  the  morning. 
Won't  she  be  delighted  with  it  all?  And  think 
of  Monty  when  he  comes!  He'll  be  completely 
stunned?" 

"If  he  has  any  proper  feeling  in  him,  he  will 
be  stunned." 

"When  is  he  coming,  Dick?" 

"Let  me  see.  He's  been  away  four  weeks,  now. 
His  trip  was  planned  to  take  three  months." 

"What  a  long,  long  journey!" 

"A  youngster  ought  to  see  a  little  of  the  world." 

"Clarice  has  been  quite  desolate  without  him. 
She  had  thought  he'd  be  in  town,  or  where  we  were, 
all  summer." 

He  bit  his  lips. 

"I  think  the  trip  was  wise.  I  wish  I'd  had  a 
journey  like  it  at  his  age." 

"Poor  Clarice!    She's  50  unhappy!" 

Actually,  as  he  looked  down  at  her,  where  she  sat 
now,  upon  a  low,  rugged  chair,  he  almost  felt  that 
he  had  been  a  vile  conspirator  in  venturing  agree- 
ment with  Aunt  Gretchen  when  she  had  declared 
that  the  two  sisters  ought  to  be  kept  separate  to 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  153 

save  the  younger  from  destruction.  And  Monty 
and  Clarice — they  were  dear  children! 

"So  Monty  won't  be  home  for  eight — long — 
weeks." 

"About  that.  Will  you  excuse  me,  dear?  I've 
got  some  letters  to  go  over.  I  had  to  make  the  day 
short  at  the  office  so  as  to  go  for  you." 

"You  just  run  along  then,  Dick,  and  do  the 
wicked  work  and  hurry  back  to  me.  It  musn't  steal 
a  minute  more  than  necessary  though,  on  our  first 
night  in  our  new  house." 

While  he  was  busy  in  the  library  she  sat  at  a  desk 
in  her  charming  boudoir,  writing  to  Clarice.  Her 
eyes  were  actually  full  of  tears  as  she  considered 
her  poor  sister's  woes.  The  letter  was  a  very  long 
one. 

"Come  right  away,"  it  ended.  "Put  your  trunks 
all  on  a  taxi  while  she's  downtown.  The  ones  she 
wouldn't  let  you  take  home  with  you  I  brought  here, 
of  course.  You'll  be  much  happier  here,  darling, 
than  with  dear  Aunt  G." 

Having  marked  the  letter  for  delivery  next 
morning  early,  by  one  of  the  house  servants,  she 
sat  a  moment,  in  a  revery  about  her  little  sister. 
She  wondered  if  the  child  would  be  in  later  life, 
as  fortunate  as  she  considered  that  she  was  herself. 
In  her  very  soul  to-night,  the  dreaming  woman  was 
quite  happy.  Life  had,  since  she  had  left  the  weari- 
some restraints  and  uncongenial  roof  on  Washing- 
ton Square  North,  tossed  into  her  lap  almost  every- 
thing that  she  had  ever  wished  for.  The  new 
house  made  her  as  happy  as  a  cushioned  basket 
makes  a  kitten,  and  part  of  her  enjoyment  of  it  was 


154  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

of  almost  the  same  sort.  But  there  were  other  de- 
tails of  her  nature  which  were  gratified.  The 
place  would  give  her  social  dignity  and  standing. 
Some,  who  had  been  scornful,  now  would  certainly 
be  envious;  some  who  had  been  envious  would 
now  be  quite  nonplussed  and  put  out  of  the  run- 
ning. She  looked  around  her  with  a  sensuous  en- 
joyment of  the  rugs,  the  furniture,  the  decorations 
on  the  walls  and  ceiling. 

"How  lovely!"  she  said  suddenly,  involuntarily 
rising  and  advancing  to  a  mirror.  "Dick  is  such  a 
dear!" 

For  a  long  minute  she  stood  there  in  contempla- 
tion of  her  own  extraordinary  beauty.  Then  she 
let  her  eye  rove  from  the  gorgeous  negilgee  she 
wore  to  the  soft  walls  of  satin-damask. 

"Ugh!"  she  cried.  "They  fight!  And  half  my 
negligees  and  morning  gowns  will  fight  with  this 
old-rose.  I  really  must  order  new  ones.  I  wonder 
if  Clarice  would  care  to  have  this  one  and — no,  the 
dear  child  ought  to  have  new  clothes  for  just  a 
while.  She's  been  wearing  clothes  down  at  Aunt 
Gretchen's  till  they  dropped  from  her  in  tatters. 
Poor  thing!  She  shall  have  everything  she  wants 
here,  anyway.  Dick  is  so  generous !  He  never 
really  says  much." 

She  turned  her  thoughts  again,  to  her  appear- 
ance and,  as  she  stood  before  the  mirror,  waved 
her  arms  in  languorous  rhythm,  and  took  a  step 
or  two  the  while  she  peered  at  her  reflection  from 
over  one  bared  shoulder. 

"Frances,"  she  said  at  length,  "you  are  a  dear 
in  this!  If  only  it — or  else  the  walls — well,  that 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  155 

can  easily  be  remedied.  Perhaps  these  old-rose 
walls — well,  I'll  have  to  talk  to  them  about  it. 
They  certainly  do  fight — and  I  like  this  wrapper — 
and—" 

She  found  a  place  upon  a  long,  thin-legged 
Recamier  couch  and  put  her  hands  behind  her 
head.  No  thought  of  bed  was  in  her  mind,  no 
weight  of  sleep  was  in  her  eyelids.  That  too,  had 
changed  since  the  dull  years  when  she  had  lived 
with  Gretchen  Jans.  She  rose  now,  when  she 
pleased. 

She  smiled.  "Dear  Clarice!"  she  was  reflect- 
ing. "She  is  in  love  with  Monty!  It  ought  to  be 
that  way,  too — two  brothers  and  two  sisters !  How 
delightful!" 

Her  thoughts  wandered  from  this  subject  soon, 
and  her  brow  clouded.  She  went  somewhat  cau- 
tiously to  the  wall-safe,  where  Elise,  by  her  in- 
structions had  placed  the  little  hand-bag  in  which 
she  had  brought  her  valuables  from  the  seashore. 
Before  she  worked  the  combination  of  the  safe 
she  looked  with  just  a  shade  of  question  in  her 
eyes,  toward  the  two  doors  which  led  into  the  room. 

"Oh,  he'll  not  be  up  for  half-an-hour,"  she  told 
herself  at  length.  From  the  bag  she  took  some 
little  oblongs  of  pink  paper,  printed  with  blue  let- 
tering and  figures.  In  the  hands  of  a  poor  woman 
an  onlooker  would  have  instantly  identified  them 
as  pawn-tickets.  In  such  wonderfully  groomed 
hands  as  hers,  glittering  with  gems,  such  supposi- 
tion would  have  been  considered  quite  absurd.  But 
she  sighed  as  she  looked  at  them,  for  absurd  as 
it  might  seem,  they  were  pawn-tickets,  for  a  good 


1 56  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

share  of  the  jewels  he  had  given  her.  "It  does  cost 
so  much  to  manage  things  at  the  seashore!"  she 
thought.  "And  I  didn't  want  to  ask  him  for  more 
money — just  right  then.  . . .  Now  I'm  back  in  town 
I'll  want  them.  I  wonder  if  he'd  be  so  very  angry. 
I'll  tell  him  some  day,  certainly.  I'm  not  trying  to 
deceive  him.  But — just  now — with  the  new  house 
and  all — and  I've  got  to  have  those  hangings 
changed,  and — and — quite  a  lot  of  other  things — 
and  Clarice's  coming  here  and  all — I  won't  tell  him 
right  away,  or  ask  him  for  the  money.  He  is  so 
funny  sometimes,  over  money!  Positively  silly. 
One  would  think  we  were  a  pair  of  paupers.  He's 
like  Aunt  Gretchen,  almost.  I  suppose  the  extras 
I've  put  in  the  house  do  bother  him,  but  he  likes 
them,  for  he  said  he  did.  And,  really  I  ordered 
them  as  much  for  him  as  for  myself.  Still  .  .  .  I'll 
not  tell  him  of  these — things — to-night." 

The  sound  of  a  far  footsteps  startled  her,  and 
she  flew  back  to  the  wall-safe  with  the  queer  little 
bits  of  paper  which,  in  a  slum-woman's  hands, 
would  have  appeared  to  be  pawn-tickets.  Poising 
there,  almost  as  if  she  really  were  terrified,  as  she 
thrust  the  slips  into  the  envelope  from  which  she 
had  just  taken  them,  she  stood  a  moment,  with  her 
hand  on  the  safe  door,  her  gaze  turned  back  across 
her  shoulder  toward  the  entrance  to  the  corridor. 
The  steps  did  not  come  nearer. 

"He  wasn't  coming.  It's  that  they're  locking 
up  the  house  downstairs,"  she  told  herself,  "but 
I'll  put  them  back  to-night.  It  will  be  better  later, 
after  he  has  learned  that  Clarice  is  coming — and 
has — got  over  that." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  157 

She  did  not,  in  the  least  believe  that  she  was 
doing  anything  which,  ethically,  was  wrong,  in 
keeping  from  him  the  amazing  fact  that  she  had 
pawned  some  of  her  jewels  in  order  to  meet  the 
great  expenses  of  her  summer,  in  spite  of  all  the 
money  he  had  given  her  to  meet  them  with.  She 
thought  only  of  the  great  necessity  for  cautiousness, 
diplomacy,  in  choosing  just  the  time  to  make  the 
revelation.  She  shot  the  bolts  of  the  small  safe, 
turned  the  combination  knob  which  locked  it,  and 
then  stood  listening  again. 

Faintly  she  heard  the  tinkle  of  a  telephone. 

"Somebody  after  Richard,"  she  said  almost 
angrily.  "They  ought  to  let  the  poor  boy  rest 
when  he's  at  home."  She  went  and  stood  a  moment 
by  the  open  door.  Up  the  stairway  came  the  word- 
less murmur  of  her  husband's  voice  replying  to  the 
call.  Then,  suddenly  it  was  apparent  that  there 
had  been  some  break  in  the  connection,  for  he  spoke 
louder,  in  annoyance. 

"Hello,  hello,  hello!  Hello  Phil,  that  you 
again?"  The  voice  again  dropped  to  a  wordless 
murmur. 

"Phil  Cartwright!"  she  exclaimed,  annoyed. 
"Whenever  he  is  here  or  has  been  here,  then  Rich- 
ard is  so  different.  I  believe  I  actually  hate  Phil 
Cartwright." 

She  went  back  into  the  softly  lighted*boudoir 
and  with  care  to  prevent  noise,  closed  the  door  on 
its  new  hinges.  It  worked  with  an  ease  she  had  not 
known  of  doors  down  at  Aunt  Gretchen't,  and  she 
swung  it  back  and  forth,  enjoying  this  as  might  a 
child  the  working  of  a  brand-new  toy. 


i58  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"That's  what  they  meant  when  they  were  talking 
of  ball-bearings,"  she  said  happily.  "How  easily 
it  swings!"  She  closed  it  softly  and  went  to  a 
drawer  set  in  the  wall,  one  of  a  little  nest  beneath 
the  window-seat.  She  pulled  it  out  and  thrust  it 
back  as  she  had  swung  the  door,  repeatedly.  It 
worked  as  perfectly  as  if  it  had  been  swimming  in 
a  bath  of  oil. 

"How  I  used  to  loathe  the  sticking  drawers 
down  at  Aunt  Gretchen's,"  she  reflected,  in  a  revery 
made  pleasant  by  the  fact  that  the  discomforts  it 
reflected  on  were  past.  "This  house  is  perfect — 
perfect!  I  don't  believe  there  is  a  thing  that  pos- 
sibly could  be  the  teeniest  bit  better — except — per- 
haps— well,  those  old-rose  hangings.  It  cost  a  lot, 
but  then,  it's  worth  it.  Dick  will  feel  as  I  do, 
later.  He  is  worried,  now,  but  when  he  comes  to 
live  in  it,  and — " 

She  heard  the  coughing  of  a  taxi  as  it  stopped 
before  the  door  and  went  to  a  front  window  to 
look  out.  "Somebody's  coming  here — at  mid- 
night !"  she  exclaimed  astonished,  and  switched  off 
the  lights,  so  that  she  could  observe  without  herself 
being  visible. 

An  electric  arc  cast  a  bright  circle  of  its  wavering, 
cold  blue  light  upon  the  sidewalk  just  between  the 
taxi  and  the  entrance  to  the  house.  Across  it  she 
saw  a  man  hurrying.  He  disappeared  at  once, 
passing  beyond  the  angle  of  her  vision  and,  a 
moment  later,  she  heard  the  outer  door  close  softly. 

"Phil  Cartwright!  He's  come  up  here,  at  this 
hour!"  She  was  really  disheartened.  "Richard 
is  so  selfish.  It's  some  business  thing  or  other,  and 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  159 

he  sent  for  him.  That's  what  he  was  telephoning, 
probably.  I  don't  think  it  nice  at  all,  when  he  him- 
self said  we  ought  to  have  this  night  to  ourselves — 
the  first  night  in  our  brand  new  house!  I  wish 
Dick  wouldn't  be  so  tiresome  with  his  miserable 
old  business  things!  They'll  very  likely  sit  and 
talk  an  hour,  and  when  they've  finished,  Richard 
will  be  worried,  and  I  won't  dare  to  speak  about 
the  hangings,  or  poor  Clarice,  or — anything.  He 
always  is  when  he  has  talked  to  that  Phil  Cart- 
wright.  I  do  wish  he'd  keep  away  from  him !" 

Again  she  listened  at  the  door  which  opened  on 
the  hall. 

Ward,  realizing  how  completely  he  had  failed  in 
carrying  out  his  firm  determination  to  curb  Frances, 
had  plunged,  the  moment  he  was  in  his  library 
alone,  into  new  schemes  for  getting  money.  New 
schemes  for  getting  money  were  the  plain  alterna- 
tive— either  he  must  curb  her,  or  he  must  have 
more — more,  more,  more  But  his  resolutions  had 
been  dissipated  by  the  magic  charm  of  her  delight- 
ful company — a  delight,  he  realized  with  a  queer 
smile,  which  he  was  now  foregoing  so  that  he  might 
keep  her  happy,  keep  her  charming  when  they  were 
together — and  he  had  sent  for  Phil  to  come  and 
help.  He  knew  how  weak  he  had  been.  He  had 
not  impressed  her  in  the  least  with  the  fact  that  he 
was  carrying  too  great  a  burden. 

Only  one  thing  now,  could  make  it  possible  for 
him  to  pay  the  debts  she  had  contracted  and  let 
her  go  on  contracting  debts  without  his  hindrance. 
He  must  secure  extension  of  the  loan  he  had  negot- 
iated with  The  Century  Trust. 


160  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

It  was  for  that  that  he  had  sent  to  Cartwright. 
Cartwright  was  the  man  to  make  arrangements. 
He  always  helped  him  manage. 

Frances,  in  the  meantime,  had  let  her  thoughts 
revert  to  Clarice. 

"I  never  said  a  word  to  her  of  Monty,"  she 
realized  and,  having  given  up  the  hope  that  Dick 
would  come  immediately,  went  to  her  desk,  picked 
up  the  letter  she  had  written,  tore  it  open  and 
examined  it.  "No;  not  a  word.  Well — " 

Smiling  now,  she  wrote : 

"You  will  be  happier,  my  dear.  Monty,  though, 
won't  be  here  for  nine  weeks!  We  were  talking 
of  you  two  this  afternoon — Dick  and  I  were.  Yes 
— we — were  I" 

•  «  •  •  * 

Next  morning  Monty  came. 


CHAPTER  IX 

The  Monty  Ward  who  rang  the  bell  of  his  big 
brother's  great  new  house  was  strangely  different 
from  the  Monty  Ward  who,  but  a  few  weeks  earlier 
had  left  New  York  to  see  what  he  could  see  in  the 
broad  avenues  of  the  wide  world.  The  journeying 
had  not  only  browned  his  skin  with  the  thick,  rich 
tan  of  open  sea,  giving  him  a  new  expression  of 
maturity  which  his  fresh,  childish  coloring  had  pre- 
vented earlier,  but  there  had  come  into  his  face  a 
deeper  strengthening — a  new  self-reliance,  a  real 
manliness.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  had 
to  shift  quite  for  himself,  upon  this  journey,  and  he 
had  learned  some  necessary  lessons  quickly — the 
sort  of  lessons  which,  once  learned  are  not  forgot- 
ten and  are  sure  to  leave  their  impress  even  on  ex- 
ternals. He  had  lost  none  of  his  unconquerable 
vivacity;  he  was  as  debonnaire,  arriving  in  New 
York,  as  any  adventurer  of  old  returning  from  far 
journeyings  with  lance  and  shield;  but,  at  the  same 
time  there  was  a  look  of  real  dependability  about 
him.  In  fact,  and  to  be  brief,  Monty  had  de- 
parted a  mere  boy  and  had  returned  a  man.  The 
little  period  of  his  absence  had  included  that  dis- 
tinctly magic  moment  which  occurs  in  certain  indi- 
viduals and  carries  them  from  youth  into  maturity 
as  at  a  bound. 

He  did  not  show  the  butler  (who,  at  that  hour 
of  the  morning  had  not  quite  assumed  the  total  of 


162  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

his  dignity  and  had  opened  the  door  to  him)  at  all 
that  measure  of  respect  which  the  man  evidently 
looked  for.  He  never  had  set  eyes  on  him  before, 
for  he  was  one  of  Frances'  new  acquisitions,  en- 
gaged to  begin  service  with  the  opening  of  the  new 
house,  but  he  pushed  blithely  past  him,  looking, 
meanwhile,  wonderingly  and  with  frank  admiration 
at  the  details  of  the  hall  and  furnishings.  When 
he  had  left  town,  the  house  had  been  in  an  unfin- 
ished state — in  that  most  utterly  unfinished  state 
which  just  precedes  completion,  when  the  litter  of 
the  workmen  is  brought  up  from  obscure  places 
and  piled  where  it  will  show. 

"What  name,  sir?"  said  the  butler,  worried. 

"Never  mind  the  name.     I — " 

"But—" 

"Which  way  must  I  go  to  find  the  library?" 

"To  the  right,  sir.  I'll  announce  you,  sir,  if  you 
will  tell  me — " 

"You  don't  need  to  announce  me.  Everybody 
knows  who  /  am." 

Paying  not  the  slightest  further  heed  to  the  dis- 
tressed man-servant  he  passed  on  until  he  reached 
a  vantage  point  from  whence  he  could  survey  the 
hall,  the  stairs,  a  bit  of  the  conservatory,  through 
whose  green  glass  a  pleasant  light  found  entry  to  a 
corner  of  the  breakfast-room,  just  at  the  left.  The 
walls,  hung  with  dark  leather,  the  broad  landing 
of  the  really  grand  staircase,  its  balustrade  like 
the  railings  of  a  Roman  balcony,  the  elaborately 
grilled  door  of  the  electric  elevator,  the  polished 
floors  and  splendid  curtains  of  rich  stuffs,  each 
caught  his  eye  in  turn  and  all  impressed  him.  He 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  163 

was  very  frankly  pleased  by  everything  and  did 
not,  in  the  least,  object  to  making  this  apparent. 
At  length,  while  the  outraged  servant  waited, 
puzzled  and  afraid  to  voice  his  wrath,  he  dropped 
his  hands  in  limp  expression  of  real  helplessness, 
unable  to  find  fitting  words. 

"Well,  well,  well!"  said  he,  and  then  began  to 
gaze  again,  delighted  by  new  details. 

Frances  had  just  gone  into  the  breakfast-room, 
too  late,  as  usual,  for  breakfast  with  her  husband, 
and,  as  usual,  regretting  this,  a  little.  The  negligee 
she  wore  was  most  becoming,  and  Elise  had  caught 
her  hair  up  in  a  loose,  artistic  knot,  quite  com- 
fortable, and  most  attractive.  Having  heard  the 
voices  in  the  hallway  she  had  waited,  in  a  portion 
of  the  breakfast  room  a  view  of  which  was  not 
commanded  by  the  open  door,  wondering  who  the 
early  caller  might  be,  till  the  youth  expressed  him- 
self thus  tersely.  She  recognized  the  voice,  al- 
though her  ears  were  most  incredulous,  and  slipped 
out  of  the  breakfast-room  to  meet  him,  but  his 
back  was  turned,  and,  at  first  he  did  not  see  her. 
Her  dainty,  slippered  feet  made  no  noise,  whatso- 
ever, on  the  thick  pile  of  the  rugs. 

"Why,  Monty,  is  it  really  you?"  she  said,  at 
length. 

He  whirled  and  looked  at  her  with  a  broad  smile. 

"You  can  make  bets  on  it."  He  caught  her  in 
a  delighted,  brotherly  embrace. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  back  and  so  surprised." 

"Well,  you've  got  nothing  on  me.  I'm  glad  to 
be  back.  And,  also,  /  am  some  surprised.  These 
- — er — palatial  halls — " 


i64  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Nice,  isn't  it?" 

"It — is — truly— great.    Where's  Dick?" 

"I  presume  he's  in  the  library.  I  thought  he 
might  be  in  the  breakfast-room,  but — " 

"How  is  he?    Well?" 

She  smiled  at  him  with  real  affection,  real  cor- 
diality of  welcome.  He  was  an  especially  nice- 
looking  boy  and  she  could  see  that  he  approved  of 
her  appearance.  She  always  had  liked  Monty  and 
knew  that  he  liked  her. 

"Yes,  Dick's  very  well." 

"That's  bully.  And— Clare?"  This  marked 
the  first  break  in  the  youth's  entire  composure. 
Frances  saw,  to  her  delight,  that  he  was  flushing. 
This  being  established  she  did  not  reply,  at  once, 
but  kept  on  looking  at  him,  not  in  a  manner  which 
the  most  extremely  sensitive  could  possibly  object 
to,  but  steadily — quite  steadily. 

"She's  well,  too,"  she  said,  at  length,  satisfied 
with  the  effect  her  careful  steadfastness  of  observa- 
tion had  accomplished.  "She's  very  well.  She's 
coming  to  live  with  us,  you  know." 

"Oh,  ho!"  said  Monty,  quite  delighted. 

"Yes,"  said  Frances,  with  a  little  tightening  of 
her  forehead.  "She  couldn't  stand  it  at  Aunt  Gret- 
chen's  any  longer,  so — we — I — asked  her  to  come 
here  and  live  with  us.  I'm  expecting  her  this  morn- 
ing— any  minute,  now.  You  seem  to  have  arrived 
at  the  right  time,  exactly!  But  why  didn't  you 
tell  us  that  you  were  coming?" 

"I  did,"  the  youth  replied,  surprised  to  hear  the 
question.  "I  sent  Dick  a  wireless.  Didn't  he  get 
it?" 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  165 

"Why,  no." 

He  made  a  gesture  of  disgust.  "That  wireless 
is  a  false  alarm,  anyhow.  The  best  way  is  to  drop 
your  message  overboard  in  a  bottle." 

As  he  spoke  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  extreme- 
ly pretty  picture,  flitting,  for  a  moment,  across  the 
mirror  opposite.  It  was  that  of  Clare,  dressed  as 
if  for  traveling  and  with  extra  wraps  upon  her  arm. 
She  had  left  Aunt  Gretchen's  in  something  of  a 
hurry,  having  had  her  packing  interrupted  by  the 
incursion  of  the  ancient  chamber-maid,  who,  claim- 
ing privilege  from  years  of  service,  began  to  ques- 
tion her  somewhat  minutely.  Panic  had  seized  the 
girl.  She  feared  the  maid  might  telephone  her 
aunt,  and,  although  she  was  not  quite  clear  in  her 
mind  as  to  exactly  what  Aunt  Gretchen  could  do  in 
the  circumstances,  she  decided  that  it  would  be  sure 
to  be  unpleasant,  so  she  had  bolted.  Her  face  was 
flushed  and  she  was  breathing  as  if  from  a  run, 
although  she  had  come  uptown  in  a  taxi.  Such 
was  the  force  of  Gretchen  Jans'  strong  character, 
that,  instinctively,  although  she  knew  it  was  ab- 
surdly silly,  the  girl  had  all  the  way  kept  a  lookout 
for  pursuit. 

"In  all  human  probability,"  she  had  assured  her- 
self (and  not  without  some  reason),  "aunt  will  be 
glad,  when  she  comes  home  and  finds  me  gone.  I 
needn't  fear  she'll  do  any  frantic  chasing." 

But,  all  the  same,  she  had  watched  constantly 
and  nervously  from  the  cab  windows,  and  now 
that  she  was  actually  within  the  doors  of  Richard's 
house,  felt  wondrously  relieved.  That,  of  itself, 
had  given 'her  delightful,  fresh  young  cheeks  un- 


1 66  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

wonted  color.  Now  the  surprise  of  seeing  Monty 
much  increased  this. 

"Why,  Monty!"  she  exclaimed  and  almost 
started  toward  him  hastily  t  with  hand  outstretched 
in  very  cordial  greeting.  She  nipped  this  impulse 
in  the  bud,  however,  and,  instead  of  hurrying  to 
him,  entrenched  herself  behind  a  table. 

He  stood  dazzled,  spellbound,  for  a  moment,  as 
it  seemed,  quite  tongue-tied. 

"Clare !"  he  said,  at  length,  not  loudly,  but  with 
a  vibrant  thrill  in  his  young  voice  which  reached 
her  inmost  soul  and  made  her  sorry  that  it  was 
good  policy  to  stay  behind  the  table.  "Gee-me- 
neddy,  but  you're  getting  pretty!"  Both  of  the 
young  people  had  entirely  forgotten  Frances. 

Now,  having  gathered  courage  or  recovered 
from  amazement,  he  approached  her,  going  round 
the  table,  indeed  rapidly.  She  waited  with  a  look 
of  extreme  interest  upon  her  face,  to  make  quite 
certain  what  he  meant  to  do,  and  when  she  had 
made  certain,  might,  possibly,  have  decided  to 
dodge  him  and  run  away  if  there  had  been  suffi- 
cient time  for  such  manoeuvres.  But  there  was  not. 
He  had  grasped  her  hands  with  all  the  freedom 
from  restraint  that  had  existed  between  them  in 
those  far-off  days,  a  few  weeks  earlier,  when  they 
had  been  children,  ere  he  had  started  as  a  trotter 
of  the  globe.  Having  seized  her  hands  he  tried  to 
draw  her  close  to  him  and  kiss  her,  but  she  turned 
her  head  away,  although  she  did  not  make  too 
great  resistance  to  the  general  direction  in  which 
his  strong  young  arms  were  urging  her. 

He  apparently  noted  her  resistance  with  some 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  167 

astonished  disapproval.  Having  noted  it  with 
care,  he  disregarded  it  and  drew  her  to  him  with 
still  greater  force,  a  force  that  took  her  to  him, 
quite  beyond  a  doubt,  but  it  did  not  turn  toward 
him  the  face  she  had  averted.  H  considered  this, 
also,  without  approval. 

"No?"  he  said  reflectively.  "Well,  now!  I'll 
show  you  who's  boss  here !" 

He  did,  immediately.  Indeed  he  kissed  her 
quite  six  times  and  possibly  a  seventh.  She  strug- 
gled, but  not  very  fiercely.  Indeed  she  struggled 
scarce  at  all  until  he  had  exclaimed:  "Now  if  you 
don't  behave  I'll  do  it  again!" 

Releasing  herself  cleverly,  so  cleverly  that  an 
observer  might  have  wondered  why,  in  case  she 
had  been  very  anxious  to,  she  had  not  writhed  out 
of  his  grasp  before  he  had  done  it  again,  she 
stepped  off  to  a  distance,  and,  having  wreaked  his 
wicked  will,  he  permitted  her  to  do  so  without  pro- 
test. 

Having  reached  the  distance  without  interfer- 
ence she  paused,  trying  to  look  angry.  "Brute !" 
she  cried,  and  looked  at  him,  suppressing  with  much 
difficulty  smiles  of  purest  joy  at  seeing  him  again. 

"Brutess!"  he  replied,  with  repartee  extremely 
mild  for  Monty. 

She  seemed,  after  this  retort,  to  be  quite  will- 
ing he  should  stay  and  gossip  with  her,  despite  his 
desperate  general  character,  for  she  asked,  with 
pleasant  interest,  almost,  it  might  be  said,  indeed, 
with  very  friendly  interest: 

"Did  you  have  a  good  time,  Monty?" 

"Rotten!"  he  replied,  with  unexpected  emphasis. 


1 68  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

This  plainly  quite  astonished  her,  but,  before 
she  could  make  comment  he  had  gone  to  her  again. 

"I  was  lonesome  as  thunder,"  he  went  on.  "Got 
desperate  in  Paris,  one  day,  and  took  a  trip  out 
into  the  Norman  hills.  Nobody  talked  any  Eng- 
lish, there — nobody  talked  any  French,  either — 
anyhow,  not  the  kind  I  know.  It  was  awful." 

"Really?" 

"I'd  ask  for  a  hard-boiled  egg  and  they'd  fetch 
around  a  horse  and  wain.  Do  you  know  what  a 
wain  is?  It's  something  like  a  wigwam  on  wheels." 

She  made  no  comment,  waiting,  evidently,  for 
more  sad  details  of  his  travels,  but  she  got  none. 
He  was  too  intent  in  study  of  her  face,  apparently, 
to  make  thought  of  far  lands  possible. 

"Clare,"  he  said,  "if  I'd  recognized  the  fact 
that  you  looked  like  you,  I  never  would  have  gone." 

This  elicited  no  response,  whatever,  so  he  sprang 
for  her,  with  arms  out-stretched.  Undoubtedly  he 
contemplated  repetition  of  proceedings  recently  so 
notable.  She  dodged  him  very  neatly,  and,  before 
she  paused,  was  once  more  quite  across  the  table 
from  him.  Accepting  his  defeat  he  waited  for  her 
conversation.  Neither  made  the  slightest  refer- 
ence to  the  defeat  itself. 

"How  do  you  like  the  new  house,  Monty?" 
Clare  asked  casually,  but  with  a  wary  eye  on  him. 

"Great!"  he  said.  "Immense!  Dick  must  have 
been  crowding  Pierpont  Morgan  these  last  few 
months." 

Frances,  who  had  watched  the  amorous  manoeu- 
vres of  the  youth,  the  desperate  resistance  of  the 
maiden,  without  comment,  but  with  much  amuse- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  169 

ment,  nodded,  now.  "The  stock  business  has  been 
very  good,  I  believe." 

With  elaborate  indifference  to  Clare,  as  if  he 
never  had  endeavored  to  make  her  a  captive, 
Monty  nodded  to  her  sister  and  sat  down  upon  a 
chair-arm. 

"That's  a  cinch,"  he  granted.  Then,  in  a  chink 
between  two  thoughts  of  Clare  remembering  that 
he  would  really  like  to  see  his  brother:  "Where  is 
Dick?  He  said  he  was  going  to  put  me  at  work 
as  soon  as  I  got  back."  The  thought  of  labor 
seemed  to  be  attractive  to  him,  for  he  spoke  with 
earnest  emphasis.  "It's  me  for  the  three-legged 
stool  to-morrow  a.  m.,  as  soon  as  the  whistle  blows. 
I'm  so  full  of  ambition  it's  bulging  my  eyes  out." 
He  looked  first  at  Frances  then  at  Clare  and  the 
second  look  dwelt  persistently.  "I've  got  to  make 
a  lot  of  money,  and  I've  got  to  make  it  quick." 

This  seemed  to  interest  Clare  deeply,  although 
she  tried  to  make  her  inquiry  sound  casual :  "Why 
this  sudden  avariciousness?" 

He  looked  down  at  the  floor,  then  looked  up  at 
the  ceiling;  he  even  stooped  and  picked  a  bit  of 
fluff  from  off  the  very  bottom  of  one  trousers  leg 
before  he  made  reply.  When,  at  length,  he  spoke, 
his  eyes  were  on  the  spot  whence  he  had  picked  the 
bit  of  fluff.  "I'm  going  to  get  married,"  he  an- 
nounced. 

If  he  had  been  striving  for  effect  he  achieved 
success  in  his  endeavor.  The  sisters,  both  of  them, 
undoubtedly  were  interested  deeply  and  immediate- 
ly. They  even  started,  slightly,  showing  their 
relationship  by  the  almost  exact  likeness  of  the 


one  start  to  the  other.  Clare  was  the  first  to 
speak  but  she  sat  down  before  she  spoke,  and 
that  she  tried  to  make  the  action  appear  to  be  mere 
chance,  not  the  result  of  real  necessity  for  a  sup- 
port, was  as  apparent  as  it  was  ineffective. 

"Going  to  be  married!"  she  exclaimed,  nor  did 
she  wholly  win  success  in  her  great  effort  to  control 
her  voice. 

"Surest  thing  you  know,"  said  he,  now  looking 
up  from  where  the  bit  of  fluff  had  been  and  meet- 
ing her  astonished,  and  perhaps,  her  dismayed 
gaze  with  frank  and  open  comradery.  "I've  got 
the  girl  all  picked  out,  and — well — we're  going  to 
get  married,  that's  all." 

"But  who  is  she?"  said  Frances.  "Somebody 
whom  you  met  abroad?"  She  stole  a  look  at  Cla- 
rice, in  which  sympathy  was  blended  with  a  certain 
curiosity — that  curiosity  which  makes  even  a  sister 
anxious  to  observe  the  definite  effect  of  a  great 
grief  upon  its  victim. 

Monty  rose.  There  was,  no  longer,  any  use  of 
pretending  to  pick  fluff.  There  had  been  but  one 
bit  at  the  start  and  that  had,  obviously,  been  en- 
tirely picked.  He  therefore  leaned  upon  the  table 
in  a  careless  attitude,  not  seeming  to,  but  really 
noting  with  exhilaration  that  each  one  of  his  move- 
ments was  followed  with  the  utmost  interest  by 
both  the  sisters.  * 

"No,  indeed,"  said  he.  "I  didn't  see  anyone 
over  there  that  I'd  even  invite  to  the  wedding. 
No;  she's  someone  that  lives  right  here  in  the  U. 
S.  In  fact,  right  here  in  New  York." 

Upon  Clarice's  face  was  an  expression  hard  to 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  171 

describe  briefly,  for  it  was  very  complicated.  As- 
tonishment was  in  it,  and,  perhaps,  chagrin.  This 
may  have  been  a  little  seasoned  with  real  grief,  and 
anger,  did,  undoubtedly,  form  one  of  its  pro- 
nounced ingredients.  Perhaps  there  was  a  pinch 
of  doubt  in  it — no  more  than  a  mere  pinch,  for 
Monty  had  spoken  definitely. 

"Monty,  are  you  serious?"  asked  Frances. 

He  sat,  again,  upon  the  chair-arm  from  which, 
recently,  he  had  arisen,  and  stood  gazing  at  her 
very  earnestly.  "Serious!"  said  he,  the  influence 
of  foreign  lands  upon  him.  "Well,  I  should  say 
yes,  yes,  and  likewise  omf  oui,  not  forgetting  ja, 
nor  yet  si,  si,  senora.  Marriage  is  a  serious 
matter." 

Clare,  having  striven  bravely  for  it,  had,  by  this 
time,  achieved  some  measure  of  control  of  her  own 
voice.  She  did  not  wish  it  to  sound  angry  and  it 
did  not.  She  wished  it  to  sound  interested  and  it 
did.  But  her  face — of  that  she  had  not  gained  such 
good  control.  It  was  quite  noticeably  pale.  "Oh, 
tell  us  who  she  is !" 

To  this  the  young  man  shook  his  head.  He 
tried  to  counterfeit  extreme  embarrassment,  and,  in 
a  measure,  did  so.  "I — I  don't  like  to,  right  now,'.' 
he  said.  Not  now.  I'm— bashful,  you  know." 

"But  when  is  it  to  be?"  asked  Frances,  not  to 
be  entirely  put  off. 

"I  don't  just  know,"  said  the  young  man,  after 
a  second  of  deep  thought.  "You  see,  we  haven't 
settled  on  any  definite  date,  yet."  He  looked  up 
at  her  with  a  frank  smile.  "I've  got  to  get  some 
money  first." 


1 72  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Clarice,  now  fully  mistress  of  her  tones,  al- 
though even  yet  she  did  not  use  her  eyes  with  any 
freedom,  keeping  them,  somewhat  persistently,  up- 
on a  figure  in  a  rug,  asked  hesitantly:  "Shall  we — 
meet  her?" 

"Oh,  surely,"  Monty  answered,  positively. 

"Have  you  been — engaged — er — long?" 

"No,  I  wouldn't  go  so  far  as  to  say  that.  You 
see,  I  don't  believe  in  long  engagements." 

Possibly  because  she  did  not  wish  to  longer  study 
the  gay  rug,  possibly  because  some  street  noise 
drew  her  notice  (but  this  is  scarcely  possible,  at 
that),  Clarice  turned  quite  away  from  him  and 
gazed  out  of  a  window. 

Instantly  the  youth  took  full  advantage  of  the 
fact  that  she  no  longed  could  look  up  and  catch  him 
with  a  sudden  glance,  and  made  Frances,  in  whose 
forehead  there  had  grown  a  frown  of  depth  and 
unmistakable  significance  of  actual  worry,  smile 
suddenly.  For,  as  soon  as  Clarice  had  turned  her 
back  the  youth  began  to  frantically  motion  the  elder 
sister  away.  It  was  evident  that  he  desired  a 
tete-a-tete  with  Clare.  At  about  the  third  em- 
phatic wave  of  his  right  hand,  Frances  left  the 
room,  and,  as  she  went,  the  smile  was  much  more 
definite  upon  her  face  than  the  preceding  frown 
had  been. 

When  she  was  safely  gone  the  young  man  spoke. 
He  did  not  offer  to  approach  Clarice,  as  he  had 
done,  earlier;  instead  he  carefully  entrenched  him- 
self behind  the  self-same  table  she  had  lately  used 
as  bulwark. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  173 

"See  here,  Clare,"  he  demanded  from  this  safe 
position,  "aren't  you  a  little  bit  sorry?" 

She  turned  and  faced  him,  though  she  did  not 
look  at  him.  She  left  her  far  place  by  the  window 
and  went  to  the  fire-place  into  which  she  gazed 
with  the  same  interest  which  she  had  given  to  the 
view  the  window  offered. 

"I — sorry?"  she  inquired;  and  then,  with  the 
least  bit  of  effort:  "Why  should  I  be — sorry?" 

Now  she  turned  toward  him  with  sudden  access 
of  cordiality.  She  even  took  a  step  or  two  in  his 
direction. 

"Why,"  said  she,  with  carefully  achieved  en- 
thusiasm, "I  am  glad!"  Her  voice  caught,  then, 
but  she  repeated  bravely:  "Glad — that  you  are 
going  to  be  so  happy !" 

Then  she  hurriedly  went  bade  to  the  window,  as 
if  something  might  be  happening  on  the  street  by 
this  time  which  she  might  be  sorry  if  she  missed 
a  sight  of. 

Monty  followed  her  at  leisure. 

"Eh — thank  you !"  he  said  courteously  to  her 
retreating  back.  And  then,  as  she  came  to  a  halt 
because  the  window  barred  her  further  progress: 
"Do  you  really  want  to  know  who  the  girl  is?" 

She  turned,  but  not  completely  toward  him. 
"Why,  of  course,"  she  answered. 

Now  he  went  close  to  her  and  there  was  not  in 
his  manner  any  of  the  forcefulness  which  had  been 
there  when  he  had  first  insisted  upon  kissing  her. 
Rather,  indeed,  was  it  now  one  of  supplication — 
very  much  excited,  worried,  anxious  supplication. 
"Well— tHen,"  said  he.  "it's— you." 


i74  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"I !"  said  Clarice,  who  had  been  very  neatly 
faked  and  now,  at  first  could  scarcely  feel  quite 
sure  she  heard  aright. 

"Yes." 

"But—" 

"You  needn't  act  as  though  you  thought  it  was 
so  strange,"  said  he.  "It's  the  most  natural  thing 
in  the  world." 

She  did  not,  however,  seem  inclined,  after  what 
she  had  just  undergone,  to  accept  this  cheerful 
view  of  things.  "But  you  haven't  said  anything  to 
me  about  it,"  she  suggested. 

"I  told  you  just  as  soon  as  I  knew  it,  myself,"  he 
answered.  "Why,  I  just  found  it  out  a  moment 
ago!" 

She  turned  from  him,  recovering  completely  and 
amazingly,  quite  at  her  ease  again,  plainly  deter- 
mined to  do  what  she  could  do  toward  forcing  him 
to  some  amends  for  the  unquestionably  uncom- 
fortable few  moments  he  had  put  her  through.  "I 
like  your — nerve !"  said  she. 

There  was  a  note  of  satisfied  complacence  in  his 
answer.  "I'm  inclined  to  be  rather  pleased  with 
it  myself.  Most  fellows  would  probably  have 
come  haunting  around  here  for  a  year  or  so  be- 
fore they  dared  to  make  a  break.  But  I — " 

Suddenly  he  stopped  this  line  of  talk  and  went 
close  to  her.  Having  reached  a  point  whence  she 
could  readily  be  reached  by  outstretched  hands,  he 
did  not  stretch  them  out.  Instead  he  stooped  a 
little  toward  her,  but  not  far  enough  to  touch  her. 
"You  may  kiss  me,"  he  said  graciously. 

"Kiss  you!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  quick  turn 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  175 

toward  him  and  a  quick  turn  away,  "I— hate 
you." 

He  did  not  insist  upon  the  kiss,  instead  he  drifted 
from  her  to  the  vantage  point  upon  the  table  which 
he  had,  at  divers  times,  used  previously.  "No,  you 
don't.  If  you  could  have  seen  how  sorry — how 
sort  of  jealous — you  looked  when  I  announced  our 
engagement !" 

"Monty,"  she  declared,  and  now  approached 
him,  but  not  lovingly,  "you  are  positively  insult- 
ing." She  did  not  struggle  very  wildly,  though,  as 
springing  from  the  table,  he  laid  hold  of  her,  and 
clasped  her  in  his  arms  possessively. 

"Now  see  here,  Clare,"  he  said  earnestly,  "I'm 
mighty  sorry,  but  I  just  couldn't  help  it — not  to 
save  my  life  I  couldn't.  I  knew  there  was  some- 
thing the  matter,  the  minute  I  fell  off  the  end  of 
Pier  Fourteen.  And  that  was  it.  That's  why  I 
had  such  a  bum  time.  I  missed  you — I — I — loved 
you." 

She  made  a  move  as  if  to  draw  away  from  him, 
but  the  effort  was  not  earnest  and  was  wholly  in- 
effective. 

"Yes,  I  did,  Clare,"  he  continued.  "And  it 
made  me  as  miserable  as  a  hen  on  a  hot  stove,  all 
the  time  I  was  away.  That's  why  I  came  back  so 
long  before  my  time — to  get  to  work — to  earn 
money — so  that  we  could  afford  to  marry." 

With  each  dash  the  youth  had  pressed  her  just 
a  little  tighter  to  his  breast,  but  she  showed  no  evi- 
dence of  real  discomfort. 

"And  I'm  going  to,"  he  went  on,  eagerly.  "I'll 
go  down  to  that  Stock  Exchange,  to-morrow,  and 


176  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

sail  through  that  bunch  like  a  pack  of  hounds 
through  a  country  village.  And  anything  that  gets 
in  my  way  will  think  it  was  run  over  by  a  Norman 
wain — and  that's  being  run  over  some.  I  love  you, 
Clare,  dear,  and  you've  simply  got  to  marry  me. 
That's  all.  You've  got  to." 

She  did  not  say  she  would  not,  but  she  made  a 
feeble  protest.  "But  you  were  perfectly  horrid!" 
she  exclaimed.  "You  had  no  right  to  do — to  say 
the  things  you  did.  Don't  you  think  I  have  any 
pride?" 

Not  violently,  but  very  steadily,  she  now  disen- 
gaged herself  and  went  to  a  short  distance,  whence 
she  looked  at  him  reproachfully.  He  let  her  do 
this,  but  in  his  eyes  were  strong  apology  and  strong 
appeal. 

"Bushels,  bales  and  bundles  of  it,"  he  declared. 
"That's  why  I  had  to  get  under  your  guard.  You 
aren't  angry,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  I  am,"  she  answered  firmly,  and,  leaving 
him  entirely,  crossed  the  room.  It  may  be  that  she 
looked  behind  her  once,  to  see  if  by  any  chance, 
he  might  be  following,  but  she  went  quite  across 
the  room. 

"You  mustn't  be,"  said  he;  and  he  was  follow- 
ing her. 

"I  will  if  I  want  to  be!" 

Now  he  approached  her  in  a  supplicating  mood. 
It  pleased  her  to  observe  that  he  appeared  to  have 
quite  ceased  to  take  things  so  for  granted  as  he 
had  been  doing. 

"But  you  don't  want  to  be,"  he  pleaded.     "Do 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  177 

you?  .  .  .  You're  trying  hard  to,  aren't  you? 
.  .  .  And  it's  mighty  hard  work,  isn't  it?" 

She  made  no  reply  and  he  insisted,  holding  her, 
with  each  insistence,,  just  a  little  tighter. 

"Isn't  it?  .  .  .    Isn't  it?  .  .  .    Isn't  it?" 

She  made  no  answer  whatsoever,  so  he  placed  his 
hands  upon  her  shoulders,  and,  holding  her  far 
from  him,  looked  straight  into  her  eyes. 

"Isn't  .  .  .  it?" 

She  did  not  hold  her  eyes  to  meet  that  steady 
gaze.  Instead  she  let  her  face  fall  to  her  cupped, 
concealing  hands.  "Yes,"  she  admitted  faintly. 

After  that  there  was  a  longish  moment  of  real 
silence,  which  the  young  man  found  agreeable,  for 
he  was  holding  her  again,  now  quite  as  tightly  as 
seemed  safe. 

"It  was  so  hard,  Monty,  so  hard — your  being 
away,"  she  told  him,  almost  weeping. 

"It  surely  was,"  he  granted.  "But  I'm  home, 
now,  and  you — just  watch  my  smoke !" 

This  recalled  his  energy  and  industry  to  mind 
and  he  looked  fretfully  about,  as  if  he  could  not 
longer  wait  for  some  means  of  expressing  them. 

"Where's  Dick,  anyhow?"  he  cried  quite  peev- 
ishly. "I  want  to  go  to  work — right  now." 

Frances  had  gone  to  find  him  and  now  brought 
him  with  her.  Monty,  turning,  saw  them  and 
sprang  toward  him. 

"Dick,  old  chap,"  he  cried,  in  his  new,  manly, 
way,  which  took  his  brother  somewhat  by  surprise. 
"By  Jove,  I'm  glad  to  see  you!  You're  looking 
fine,  too." 

Ward  took  his  hand  in  a  warm  clasp.     Things 


178  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

had  not  come  about  as  he  had  hoped  his  strategy 
might  make  them — he  could  not  see  so  very  many 
indications  on  the  surface  of  the  situation  to  make 
him  think  that  Monty,  while  he  had  been  journey- 
ing, had  forgotten  Clarice  wholly;  but  it  seemed 
very  good  to  have  his  suddenly  matured  young 
brother  near  him  in  New  York  again.  "Glad 
to  see  you,  Monty.  Have  a  good  time 
did  you?" 

"Had  a  better  time  in  the  last  fifteen  minutes 
than  in  all  the  time  I  was  away."  He  turned  to 
Clare.  "Shall  we  tell  him,  Clare?" 

Ward,  seeing  his  plans  gone  wrong  entirely,  took 
their  destruction  cheerfully.  He  loved  both  young 
folk.  They  might,  after  all,  be  very  happy.  Clare 
might  learn — 

"What's  all  the  mystery?"  he  asked,  although 
he  knew,  of  course." 

"Clare  and  I  are  going  to  be  married.  Yes,  sir; 
she  proposed  to  me — and  I  accepted  her,  right  off 
the  bat.  So  it's  me  for  work  to-morrow  morning,  if 
that  job's  still  vacant." 

His  brother  nodded.  "It's  vacant,  now,  old 
man,"  said  he.  "I'm  not  going  down,  this  morn- 
ing, but  perhaps  you'd  better.  I'll  'phone  them 
that  you're  coming." 

"Fine!  Immense!"  said  Monty.  "It  certainly 
is  good  to  be  back  again,  Dick.  How's  everything 
going?  If  the  new  stable"  (he  let  his  eyes  roam 
around  the  splendid  room)  "is  any  criterion  things 
have  been  coming  up  your  street  like  a  torch-light 
parade." 

His  brother's  voice  was  just  a  little  dull  and 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  179 

weary  as  he  answered:     "Business  has  been  good 
— very  good." 

"That's  immense.  Now  Dick,  put  me  on  the 
stool  that  moves  the  fastest,  won't  you?  You  know 
it  costs  a  lot  of  money  to  be  married,  these  days 
and  I  want  to  become  a  benedict  while  I'm  still 
able  to  walk.  It's  no  fun  getting  married  when 
they  have  to  push  you  down  the  aisle  in  a  wheeled 
chair." 


CHAPTER  X 

Now  that  the  thing  was  done,  Richard  tried  to 
put  away  from  him  all  thoughts  of  anything  but 
pleasure  over  Monty's  engagement.  He  surely 
wished  the  boy  a  happy  life  and  he  was  fond  of 
Clare  and  sure  that  she  could  help  him  achieve  one 
being,  meanwhile,  very  happy  on  her  own  ac- 
count with  such  a  splendid  chap  as  Monty,  if  she 
did  not — ah,  if  she  did  not — No;  he  could  not 
quite  put  all  those  thoughts  away. 

The  next  evening,  in  his  study,  where  he  had 
long  been  very  busy  over  puzzling,  and  distress- 
ing figures,  Frances  came  and  sat  upon  his  chair- 
arm.  She  began  to  talk  about  the  young  folk. 

"They're  very  happy,  aren't  they,  Dick?  It's 
good  to  see  people  happy.  I  ...  love  happi- 
ness 1' 

"Clare  didn't  go  home,  last  night,  did  she? 
The  two  foolish  creatures  were  still  sitting  by  the 
fire  and  spinning  dreams  when  I  came  in,  and  that 
was  after  eleven." 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,  Dick.  Clare  is  com- 
ing to  live  with  us.  I  sent  for  her,  yesterday. 
That's  how  she  happened  to  be  here  when  Monty 
came.  You  don't  mind,  do  you?  I  meant  to  ask 
you,  but  you  were  away,  or  busy,  and  it  was  posi- 
tively unbearable  for  her  at  Aunt  Gretchen's." 

He  was  a  bit  non-plussed.  He  had  not  expected 
this,  and  he  had  no  ready  answer. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  181 

"I  know,  Dick,  because  I  lived  there,  myself," 
his  wife  went  on.  "She  just  can't  understand 
people  wanting  decent  things  to  wear,  and  decent 
things  to  look  at.  She's  getting  to  be  positively 
miserly !  And  I  was  so  sorry  for  Clare  that,  after 
aunt  had  dragged  her  back  to  town,  that  way,  I 
wrote  her,  of  course,  to  come.  I  knew  you 
wouldn't  mind,  Dick.  You  don't,  do  you?" 

Still  he  scarcely  knew  just  what  to  say  to  her. 
He  did  not  wish  to  tell  her  that  he  dreaded  the 
expense  which  he  was  certain  would  result  from 
the  two  sisters  talking  over  what  they  called  their 
needs,  together,  where  there  was  a  car  in  waiting, 
always,  to  take  them  downtown  where  such  needs 
could  be  supplied;  he  scarcely  cared  to  tell  her 
that  he  feared  her  influence  upon  the  girl  his 
brother  loved  and  planned  to  marry.  So,  finally, 
he  said,  and  knew  that  he  was  weak  in  saying 
it: 

"Of  course  not,  Frances,  if  you  want  her.  .  .  . 
Only,  it  seems  to  me  that,  maybe,  she  might  be 
better  off,  down  there." 

"Better  off,  there !"  His  wife  looked  at  him  in 
genuine  wonder  at  the  thought  that  he  could  en- 
tertain so  strange  a  notion.  "At  Aunt  Gretchen's? 
Why,  Dick,  nobody  could  be  worse  off  than  that ! 
Didn't  you  say  that  when  you  took  me  away  from 
there?" 

He  could  not  deny  that  he  had  said  just  that,  a 
hundred  times;  and  neither  could  he  tell  her  that, 
having  learned  more  of  her  than,  at  that  time,  he 
had  known,  he  now  to  some  extent  agreed  with  the 
very  woman  he  had  then  believed  was  stingy, — 


1 82  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

stingy  to  the  point  of  cruelty  to  the  two  girls  whom 
she  had  taken  in. 

"Clare's  inclined  to  be  extravagant — wasteful," 
he  declared,  though.  "Aunt  Gretchen's  example 
might  not  be  a  bad  thing  for  her."  He  spoke  very 
carefully.  His  position  was  not  simple.  "And 
she  lives  comfortably,  at  any  rate,"  he  added. 

"Comfortably!"  Frances'  voice  was  scornful. 
"How  can  you  say  that,  Dick?  With  all  that 
horse-hair  furniture,  and  those  wax-flowers  in  the 
front  parlor!  Why,  Dick,  it's  positively  awful!" 

Again  he  failed  to  answer  her.  The  man  was 
thinking  deeply.  There  was  truth  in  what  she  said. 
He  could  imagine  that  a  girl  like  Clare  might  be 
tremendously  unhappy  at  Aunt  Gretchen's;  still — 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  his  wife  went 
on,  finding  him  still  silent.  "That  nasty  old  busi- 
ness again?"  She  went  to  him  and  put  her  hand 
upon  his  shoulder  pleadingly.  There  was  feeling 
in  the  tone  and  feeling  in  the  gesture,  too,  that  he 
was  sure  were  genuine.  It  touched  him  to  have 
her  look  up  at  him  with  really  anxious  eyes.  "You 
mustn't  worry,  so  Dick,  it  just  breaks  my  heart 
to  see  you  worry." 

He  smiled  at  her,  although  it  cost  him  a  real 
effort.  She  raised  her  lips  and  kissed  him  daintily. 

"There,  that  drives  them  away,  doesn't  it — the 
wicked  worries?  Sometimes  I  cause  them,  don't 
I,  Dick,  but — am  I  a  good  wife,  Dickie,  dear,  and 
do  you  love  me?" 

She  was  quite  irresistible.  His  face  lighted  won- 
derfully as  he  replied:  "You  know  how  much  I 
love  you,  dear." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  183 

She  sat  and  loked  at  him  and  talked  with  that 
delightful,  half  childish  and  half  serious  emphasis 
which  he  had  found  so  charming,  which  he  still 
found  so  charming.  "Not  so  much  as  I  love  you, 
Dick,  and  I'm  not  as  good  a  wife  as  you  are  a  hus- 
band. You  know  you've  talked  of  it  a  lot,  of  late 
— oh,  yes  you  have !  I  spend  so  much  money !  I'm 
always  wanting  something.  .  .  .  And  I  don't 
know  at  all  about  business,  while  good  wives  ought 
to  be  able  to  talk  their  husbands'  business  over  with 
them,  hadn't  they?" 

He  nodded.  "They  ought  to  be  frugal  and  eco- 
nomical," he  said  in  acquiescence,  when  she  had 
not  quite  expected  it. 

On  many  an  occasion  in  the  past,  self-criticism 
on  her  part  had  made  him  rise  to  her  defense 
against  herself  and,  possibly,  averted  criticism 
from  his  own  lips. 

"Frugal  and  economical,"  said  she,  "and  see 
that  the  servants  don't  waste  the  butter,  and  know 
the  price  of  chops,  and  haggle  with  the  tradesmen. 
.  .  .  And  I  don't  do  any  of  those  things,  Dick." 

He  smiled  somewhat  ruefully.  She  certainly  did 
not. 

"But  I'm  going  to,  after  this.  Would  you  love 
me  more  if  I  were  that  sort  of  a  wife?" 

"I  couldn't  love  you  any  more,  Frances." 

She  was  not  satisfied,  at  all.  On  previous  oc- 
casions he  had  been  far,  far  more  demonstrative 
in  his  protestations  when  she  had  brought  him  to 
book,  in  this  way. 

"I  don't  like  the  way  you  say  that,  Dick.  You 
really  mean  you'd  like  to  have  me  do  those  things." 


1 84  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"It  would  help,  dear,"  he  admitted.  "That's 
the  way  that  people  save."  He  wondered  if  it 
would  impress  her,  much,  if  he  explained  to  her, 
again,  the  real  necessity  that  they  should  save  a 
little,  now.  He  decided  that  it  would  not,  and,  as 
she  jumped  up  and  stood  before  him  with  a  bril- 
liant smile  of  real  determination  on  her  face,  he 
was  rather  glad  he  had  not  tried  it. 

"Then  I'll  be  that  kind!"  she  cried.  "Really, 
we  ought  to  save.  We're  terribly  extrava- 
gant." 

He  smiled,  much  pleased  at  this.  If  she  could 
once  come  to  actual  realization  of  how  terribly  ex- 
travagant she  was ! 

.  "That  is"  (plainly  she  thought  it  wise  to  quali- 
fy a  little,)  "in  a  way  we  are;  and  we  ought  to  be- 
gin saving  right  away." 

He  nodded  with  approval.  "Yes,  dear,  really 
we  ought." 

"For,"  she  went  on,  as  if  he  had  not  spoken, 
"we  need  a  new  motor  terribly.  Of  course  I 
ought  not  to  ask  for  one,  right  after  you  have 
given  me  such  a  be-yu-tiful  new  home,  and  after  I 
have  made  that  home  cost  so  much  more  than  you 
expected,  dear  .  .  .  and  I  don't  ask  it.  I  just 
mentioned  it.  That's  all." 

His  elation  was  all  gone.  It  vanished  far  more 
quickly  than  it  had  come  to  him.  He  shook  his 
head  and  when  it  fell  into  repose  it  had  the  old 
time  tired  droop  upon  its  shoulders.  "I'm  afraid 
it's  out  of  the  question,  for  a  while,  at  any  rate." 

"Of  course  it  is,"  she  seemed  to  agree  fully. 
"No  one  knows  that  any  better  than  I.  And  we 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  185 

won't  say  another  word  about  it.  My  big  boy 
has  too  many  things  to  worry  him,  as  it  is." 

With  one  of  her  delicious  bits  of  mothering  she 
put  her  crooked  arm  around  his  neck  as  he  sat  at 
his  desk  and  stood  beside  him,  pressing  his  head 
against  her  breast,  mothering  and  petting  it  with 
the  other  hand. 

"Poor  head!"  she  said.  "With  so  much  in  it, 
and  with  a  nasty  little  wife  who  worries  it  so !  Tell 
me  about  the  worries,  Dick,  and  I  will  help  you." 

"You  wouldn't  understand,  dear,"  he  said,  some- 
what wearily. 

She  drew  away,  pretending  to  be  offended.  "Am 
I  so  stupid  as  that?" 

He  smiled.  "It  isn't  stupid,  dear;  it's  just  that 
you  don't  know  about  such  things." 

"But  you  could  try,"  said  she,  persisting  prettily. 

Half  against  his  will,  knowing  that  it  would  be 
waste  of  time  and  energy  to  tell  her  about  business 
matters,  but,  still,  hopeful  that  if  she  understood 
it  might  impress  her  with  the  real  necessity  for 
helping  him  by  cutting  down  expenses,  he  did  tell 
her  something  of  his  worry. 

"It's — it's  about  the  Century  National  loan," 
said  he.  "I — I've  been  puzzled  and  alarmed  about 
it.  They  have  my  paper  for  sixty  thousand,  you 
know,  and  they  don't  want  to  renew  on  the  security. 
It  comes  as  something  of  a  shock,  for  I  had  every 
reason  to  suppose  that — " 

Thinking  of  it  and  the  mystery  of  it  got  on  his 
nerves  again  as  it  had,  many  times,  since  he  had 
learned  of  it. 

"It  worries  me,"  said  he.    "It  worries  me  tre- 


i86  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

mendously.    I  had  Phil  Cartvvright  here,  last  night 

»> 

"Yes;  I  saw  him  come." 

" — and  he  is  quite  as  puzzled  by  the  thing  as 
I  am.  They  won't  renew  on  what  they  have,  and 
— I  don't  know  what  else  to  give  them." 

"Well,"  said  she,  "if  they're  going  to  be  so 
mean  and  nasty  about  it,  tell  them  that  you  won't 
pay  them  at  all." 

He  looked  at  her  with  mixed  emotions  showing 
on  his  face.  Of  course  he  had  known  perfectly 
the  utter  hopelessness  of  endeavoring  to  make  her 
understand.  It  could  scarcely  be  said  that  her  en- 
tire failure  to  do  so  had  come  as  a  surprise  to  him, 
but  it  was  a  disappointment,  too.  If  she  would  not 
even  make  the  effort,  then  he  could  scarcely  hope 
to  so  impress  her  with  the  grim  necessities  of  the 
unpleasant  situation  which  confronted  him  as  to 
induce  her  to  be  careful  about  money.  He  ans- 
wered very  carefully,  however,  still  trying  to  be 
fair,  to  give  her  every  chance. 

"But  you  can't  do  that  in  business,"  he  explained. 
"I  have  thought  of  trying  to  take  up  this  loan  by 
negotiating  with  the  United  Leather.  Carson,  the 
president  there,  understands,  I  think,  just  how 
things  are,  and,  if  I  can  arrange  with  him  to — " 

But,  suddenly,  he  saw  that  she  no  longer  was 
attending.  Not  understanding,  in  the  least,  what 
he  was  talking  of,  she  had  gone  from  behind  his 
chair  and,  now,  was  busy  with  small  details  of  a 
hanging.  It  cut  him. 

"I'm  sorry  if  I  am  disturbing  you,  dear,"  he 
said,  and  his  voice  showed  the  real  depth  of  the  cut. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  187 

She  did  not  notice  this,  however.  Her  mind  had 
drifted  from  the  subject  wholly.  "Dick,"  she  said, 
absolutely  unimpressed  by  anything  which  he  had 
said  about  the  bitter  problems  that  confronted  him. 

"Yes,  dear." 

Now  she  noted  something  in  his  voice  which 
brought  her  back  from  her  absorption  in  the  tri- 
viality which  had  attracted  her  attention  from  his 
talk.  She  saw  the  deep  lines  on  his  face,  the  worry 
in  his  eyes,  the  disappointment  she  had  given  him. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry,  Dick!"  she  cried,  really  very 
anxious  to  atone.  "I  was  trying  hard  to  pay  at- 
tention—really I  was!  I  guess  I'm  no  good,  Dick. 
I'm  no  help  to  you,  at  all.  And  I  ought  to  be. 
Say  what  you  were  saying  again.  I'll  listen,  this 
time;  really  I  will!" 

He  shook  his  head,  although  he  smiled  a  little. 
Even  when  she  disappointed  him  she  was  alluring, 
charming. 

"You're  disgusted  with  me.  You're  angry  with 
me,"  she  said,  unhappily. 

"No;  I'm  not,  dear  heart.  Neither  the  one  nor 
the  other."  But  he  plainly  had  decided  not  to  try 
to  tell  her  more  about  his  worries.  He  bent,  some- 
what wearily  above  the  papers  on  his  desk. 

She  leaned  across  his  shoulder  and,  declared, 
contritely,  "I'm  so  sorry,  dear!" 

He  had  not  been  much  annoyed  because,  per- 
haps, he  had  expected  little ;  but  he  had  been  hope- 
ful— hopeful  that  her  interest  might  really  end  in 
understanding,  and  that  understanding  might  result 
in  actual  assistance,  to  the  extent,  at  least,  of  a 
little  more  consideration,  for  a  time,  of  money  mat- 


i88  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

ters — so  his  disappointment  really  was  great. 
"You  needn't  be  sorry,"  he  said,  smiling.  He  would 
not  let  himself  be  critical  of  her.  "And — I'm  go- 
ing into  the  study  for  awhile  before  I  go  down- 
town." 

"What  time  will  you  be  home  this  afternoon?" 
"The  usual  time — five-thirty  or  so."  He  won- 
dered, as  he  looked  at  her,  if  he  had  entirely  failed 
to  make  the  least  impression  on  her.  Was  it  not 
certain,  he  debated,  that,  although  she  seemed  so 
careless  of  his  worries,  she  must,  really,  be  con- 
cious  of  the  fact  that  he  was  troubled  seriously  and 
in  need  of  help?  Might  it  not  seem  upon  the  sur- 
face that  she  did  not  care,  did  not  even  try  to  un- 
derstand, while,  really,  this  was  not  the  case  at 
all?  He  loved  her  and  had  proved  it  in  ten  thou- 
sand ways.  She  loved  him — that  he  did  not  doubt. 
After  he  had  gone  would  she  not  think  seriously 
of  the  matters  he  had  emphasized,  and,  consider- 
ing them,  determine  to  be  helpful?  He  wondered 
if  she  had  not  asked  about  the  time  of  his  return 
so  that  she  might  know  just  how  many  hours  were 
waiting  in  which  she  might  accomplish  something, 
plan  a  system  of  economies,  to  pleas  him.  Per- 
haps she  had  been  thinking  of  a  fine  surprise  of  this 
sort. 

"Couldn't  you  get  home  about  two?"  she  asked. 
"There's  an  agent  coming  to  show  me  a  new  car 
and  he  says  I  can  have  it  done  in  any  color  I  want." 
She  was  as  eager  as  a  child  in  making  this  quite 
clear.  "It's  like  the  one  that  Tom  Van  Ork  gave 
Molly  for  her  birthday,  and — my  birthday's  next 
week,  you  know,  Dickie  dear,  and  I  thought  that, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  189 

maybe,  you  might  want  to  give  me  a  new  car,  too , 
mine's  such  a  rattly  old  thing,  you  know." 

She  saw  the  look  upon  his  face,  and,  for  a  mo- 
ment, was  impressed  by  it,  although  it  seemed 
rather  to  repel  her  than  to  make  her  feel  at  all 
contrite. 

"But,  of  course,"  she  added,  "if  you  can't  afford 
it—" 

He  went  back  to  her,  still  very  careful  to  be  most 
considerate  in  manner  and  in  speech.  He  felt  that 
he  must  not  allow  himself  to  blame  her.  "I'm 
afraid,  dear,"  he  said  evenly,  "that  it's  out  of  the 
question — at  present,  at  any  rate." 

She  pouted,  very  greatly  disappointed.  "But 
Tom  Van  Ork  hasn't  nearly  such  nice  offices  as 
yours !  And  I  thought  if  he  could  afford  it,  surely 
you  could!  .  .  .  Maybe  not  right  away,  of  course 
.  .  .  but  they'd  trust  you  for  it,  you  know.  I  even 
asked  the  man  about  that  and  he  said  that  they 
would  trust  you.  He  said  that  all  you'd  have  to 
do  would  be  to  give  them  a  note,  or  something." 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  he  said,  still  evenly,  still  care- 
fully, "but  I  don't  see  how  we  can  get  it — at  any 
rate,  not  for  a  while." 

Really  angry,  now,  she  drew  away  from  him. 
To  have  her  urgings  fail  with  him  in  any  detail 
whatsoever  was  almost  a  new  experience.  A  hun- 
dred times,  she  had  vanquished  his  objections  to 
expenditures  with  much  less  argument  than  she  had 
used,  this  morning.  "Of  course,  if  you  feel  that 
way  about  it — " 

Still  he  did  not  let  himself  show  his  exasperation, 
even  in  his  tone.  "It  isn't  the  way  I  feel,"  he  said, 


i9o  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

defensively,  "it's  the  ability,  or,  rather,  the  inabil- 
ity to  do — " 

"But  Tom  Van  Ork— " 

"Tom  Van  Ork  has  an  importing  house.  It's 
an  entirely  different  matter.  He  does  a  great  vol- 
ume of  business  with  very  few  individuals.  I  do, 
at  present,  a  very  small  amount  of  business  with  a 
great  many  individuals.  I — " 

"Yes;  but  I  don't  see  why.  You  know  you're 
much  smarter  than  he  is — everyone  says  so.  And 
if  he  can  afford  these  things,  it  seems  to  me  that  we 
could." 

After  an  instant's  pause  she  now  brought  forth 
an  argument  which,  plainly,  she  considered  quite 
unanswerable. 

"We  ought  to,  for  appearances  sake,  if  for  no- 
thing else." 

The  thing  had  reached  the  point,  he  felt,  where 
he  must,  really,  be  very  final.  Such  discussion  was 
quite  profitless;  it  could  lead  nowhere  but  to  quar- 
rels. They  had  never  had  a  quarrel  and  he  did 
not  intend  to  let  this  matter  carry  them  along  to 
one.  "My  dear  girl,  as  I  have  told  you  so  many, 
many  times,  I  can  earn  only  so  much,  and  that  has 
no  bearing  whatever  on  what  anyone  else  earns." 
He  made  his  voice  as  positive  as  possible,  being 
careful,  though,  to  keep  all  notes  of  anger  from  it. 
"I  can  buy  you  nothing  else  for  a  while." 

As  he  turned  away  he  let  his  eyes  rove  around 
the  room — the  beautiful  new  room,  a  part  of  the 
beautiful  new  house;  the  whole,  his  beautiful  new 
gift  to  her — and  the  great  weight  beneath  which, 
by  reason  of  the  strange  and  unexpected  opposi- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  191 

tion  he  was  meeting  on  the  street,  he  had  found  it 
necessary,  suddenly  to  so  desperately  struggle.  All, 
all  had  been  devised  and  done  for  her!  Was  she 
without  appreciation,  wholly?  And  now  she  was 
persistently  demanding  more !  He  kept  reproaches 
from  his  lips  with  difficulty,  and,  an  instant  later, 
was  extremely  glad  he  had. 

She  followed  him  as  he  went  to  his  study  door, 
and,  just  before  he  reached  it,  put  her  hand  upon 
his  arm.  "Dickie,  dear,"  she  pleaded,  "I'm  sorry 
that  I  spoke  of  it,  at  all.  Really  I  am.  I  won't 
speak  of  a  new  car,  again." 

He  put  his  arm  around  her,  love  and  exultation 
swelling  in  his  heart.  They  stood  there,  closely 
clasped;  he  assured  himself  for  the  ten-thousandth 
time  that  he  had  grievously  misjudged  her,  that, 
after  all,  she  was  the  dearest  thing  on  earth  and 
most  adorable.  She  did  not  mean  to  be  inconsider- 
ate. And  the  new  car — if  everything  went  right, 
and  soon,  things  must,  again,  begin  to  go  right  with 
him — well,  she  should  have  the  car. 

•  •  •  •  • 

The  new  butler  had  not  seen  Aunt  Gretchen,  either, 
and,  when  she  passed  him  in  the  hall  and  made  her 
way  directly  to  the  drawing-room,  without  so  much 
as  by-your-leave,  he  did  not  quite  know  what  to  do. 
He  remembered  Monty,  though,  and  made  no  pro- 
test. The  arrival  of  Elise  upon  the  scene  relieved 
him.  She  told  him  with  her  eyes  that  the  visitor 
was  not  one  who  would  steal  the  silver  mantel-clock 
and  he  departed,  leaving  her  to  see  what  she  re- 
quired. 


i92  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

I  will  tell  monsieur  you  are  here,"  said  the  ex- 
tremely pretty  French  girl. 

"Um!"  was  Aunt  Gretchen' s  comment,  as  she 
looked  about  the  room.  Here  was  no  horse-hair 
furniture !  Nothing  which  had  cost  so  little,  would, 
it  was  quite  evident,  be  tolerated  in  this  room  or 
in  the  rooms  adjoining  it. 

It  was  plain  from  the  expression  of  her  face  that 
she  did  not  approve,  at  all,  of  what  from  where 
she  stood  she  saw  of  the  new  house. 

"Madame  wishes  anything?"  said  Elise  polite- 
ly, before  starting  off. 

"No." 

"Madame  will  make  herself  comfortable?"  She 
advanced  a  dainty  chair  toward  her. 

"Madame,"  Aunt  Gretchen  said,  with  a  long 
look  round  the  room,  "will  try,  but  Madame  will 
not  succeed,  in  a  bird-cage  like  this." 

"Bien,  Madame,"  Elise  replied  respectfully. 
She  was  very  much  afraid  of  her  mistress's  Aunt 
Gretchen;  there  was  no  sign  of  amusement  on  her 
face  as  she  observed  the  quite  apparent  look  of  dis- 
approval with  which  the  drawing-room  was  being 
studied.  She  knew  all  about  Aunt  Gretchen  and  the 
fact  that  she  was  spoken  of  as  being  fabulously  rich 
had,  long  ago  secured  for  her  her  most  subserviant 
respect.  As  the  visitor  still  stood,  she  again  ad- 
vanced the  chair  which  she  had  offered. 

"That  wasn't  made  to  sit  on,"  said  Aunt  Gret- 
chen, looking  at  it  scornfully.  Its  slight,  graceful 
frame  and  delicately  shaded  satin  covering  was  in 
strong  contrast  to  the  furniture  in  her  own  draw- 
ing-room on  Washington  Square,  North. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  193 

Elise,  uncertain  what  would  be  best  to  do,  with- 
drew. Aunt  Gretchen  gave  the  dainty  chair  a 
wide  berth  and  crossed  over  to  a  sofa.  Standing 
not  against  the  wall,  as  all  her  sofas  stood,  and 
backless,  it  offered  no  support  whatever  to  the 
shoulders.  Aunt  Gretchen  when  she  sat,  liked  com- 
fort, so  she  rose  again. 

"Sofa,  everything  for  show,"  she  said,  and  once 
more  gave  the  room  a  minute,  disapproving  survey. 
She  was  thus  engaged  when  Richard  entered. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "this  is  a  surprise — and  an 
honor." 

"Richard,"  she  said,  advancing  to  his  out- 
stretched hand,  "it's  seldom  I  get  an  impulse. 
When  I  do,  I  like  to  coddle  it.  I  had  started  down- 
town when  I  got  an  impulse  to  come  up  here  in- 
stead, and  against  my  judgment  I  came,  for  busy- 
bodies  seldom  get  anything  for  their  pains  but 
trouble.  Richard,  maybe  you  don't  know  it,  and 
maybe  you  do,  but  you're  a  fool." 

"Who  isn't?"  he  replied,  not  much  astonished. 

"Well,  I'm  not,  for  one,  and  there  are  a  couple 
of  others  I  could  mention,  if  I  should  think  long 
enough.  Don't  you  think  you've  let  Frances  squan- 
der enough  money — and  opportunities?" 

It  aggravated  him  to  have  her  go  back  to  the 
subject  which  had  been  so  much  discussed  between 
them;  but  he  also  knew  that  she  was  animated  by 
real  friendship,  and  that  underneath  her  brusque- 
ness  there  was  probably  a  vein  of  very  actual  love 
for  both  of  them.  He  wondered  what  had  stirred 
her  up,  that  morning. 

"Why?"  he  asked. 


194  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"I  just  told  you  I  wasn't  a  fool.  Don't  you  sup- 
pose I  know  that  somehow  you've  got  yourself  on 
your  last  legs  financially?  I've  heard  about  the 
Century  Trust  this  morning.  I'll  admit  that  their 
refusal  to  renew  your  loan  astonished  me,  and  I've 
been  wondering  why  it  was.  There  is  a  chance 
that  all  this  reckless  spending  of  good  money  which 
goes  on  here  in  your  household  has  been  what 
made  them  decide  against  you.  Bankers  watch 
such  things  among  the  people  whom  they  loan  to. 
I  know  what  their  refusal  may  mean  to  you. 
And — look  here,  Richard,  are  you  a  man  or  a 
mouse?" 

"A  mouse,  I  think,"  said  he.  There  was  no  use 
trying  to  deny  the  fact  of  his  financial  embarrass- 
ment to  her.  Her  knowledge  of  affairs  was  quite 
uncanny. 

"And  I  think  so  too.  I  don't  think  you  deserve 
much  sympathy  and  I  don't  think  you  deserve  any 
help.  And  I'm  not  going  to  give  you  any — " 

She  paused,  but  he  said  nothing. 

" — that  is,  not  yet,"  she  added. 

"I'm  not  asking  help — not  asking  you,"  said  he, 
a  little  angrily. 

"I  know — that's  why  I  am  here.  Why  don't 
you  put  your  foot  down  and  say  that  all  this  wanton 
waste  of  money — of  everything  that  counts — shall 
end?  Taking  Clarice  away  from  me  and  bringing 
her  up  here  to  make  your  burdens  heavier  when 
those  you're  carrying  already  are  too  much  for  you  ! 
Clarice  has  good  in  her  and  so  has  Frances — but 
for  Frances  to  believe  that  she's  the  one  to  start 
that  girl  upon  the  proper  road  in  life — why, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  195 

Richard,  they  are  just  alike !  She  will  not  help  the 
girl,  but  hurt  her.  You've  brains  enough  to  see 
how  foolish,  how  futile  it  all  is." 

He  was  uncomfortable.  He  knew  she  spoke 
plain  truth.  "But—" 

"I'm  a  very  busy  woman.  Don't  try  to  foozle 
with  me.  I  know  about  those  girls.  Don't  you 
forget  that  I  had  charge  of  Frances  before  you 
took  her  off  my  hands."  She  rose;  she  found  her- 
self more  comfortable  standing  than  sitting  on  the 
fancy  things  there  in  that  drawing-room.  "I  know 
her,  bone,  blood,  vanity  and  laziness." 

He  felt  that  he  must  speak  in  vehement  defense, 
but  did  not.  The  situation  seemed  to  him  to  be  too 
hopeless.  His  efforts  to  impress  his  wife — Still  it 
did  not  seem  to  him  to  be  quite  fair  for  Gretchen 
Jans  to  come  to  him  and  criticize  him  for  his  fail- 
ure to  make  Frances  see  things  in  their  true  rela- 
tion. 

"But  you—" 

"Had  her  and  didn't  succeed  in  doing  anything 
with  her,  you  were  going  to  say?"she  said.  "I  had 
just  begun  to  hope  to  when  she  hopped  away  and 
went  to  you.  That's  why  she  eloped.  You  knew 
it,  and  you  helped  her.  The  screws  were  beginning 
to  bind  too  tightly." 

He  made  no  reply.  What  she  said  was  absolute- 
ly true. 

"Richard,"  she  went  on,  "I'm  late,  already.  I 
haven't  any  time  to  spare.  I  really  hadn't  time  to 
come  uptown  to  see  you.  But  I  thought — I  hoped 
— a  word  or  two  might  do  some  good,  and  if  so,  I 
wanted  to  say  it.  You've  let  her  run  you,  and  she's 


i96  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

run  you — I  don't  understand  it,  all  of  it,  I  will  ad- 
mit that,  Richard,  but  at  the  bottom  you'll  find 
Frances,  whatever  it  may  prove  to  be  which  has 
been  happening  to  you — she's  run  you  so  far  into 
the  hole  that  you  can't  see  daylight.  If  you  ever 
expect  to  get  out  you'll  have  to  learn  to  run  her; 
if  you  don't  there  won't  be  enough  left  to  pay  for 
the  excavating.  .  .  .  And  I  like  you,  Richard.  I 
think  you  mean  to  do  what's  right.  .  .  .  Think  it 
over — think  it  all  over  and  then  do  something  be- 
fore it  is  too  late." 

He  could  not,  possibly,  be  angry  with  her.  It 
was  a  relief  to  him  to  talk  to  someone  who  seemed 
to  actually  know  of  his  financial  danger  and  to 
know  and  to  appreciate  just  what,  primarily  had 
resulted  in  his  sore  embarrassment.  She  plainly 
did  not  know  any  more  than  he  did,  just  why  he  was 
being  so  unmercifully,  so  personally  hammered  on 
the  Street,  but  she  knew  what  it  had  been  which 
had  so  bound  him  that  he  could  not  dodge  the 
hammering. 

"If  it  is  any  satisfaction  to  you  to  know  it,  that 
I  had  already  decided." 

"Good!"  said  she.  "I  trust  that  you'll  be  able 
to  do  it." 

As  they  stood,  on  the  point  of  parting,  Frances 
entered.  She  was  glad  to  see  Aunt  Gretchen  there ; 
glad  to  have  her  see  the  comfort  and  the  luxury  of 
the  new  house.  She  had  a  wholly  wrong  idea  that, 
seeing  them,  she  would  be  impressed  by  them  and 
think  that  possibly  she  had  not  shown  true  ap- 
preciation of  her  when  she  had  been  with  her.  She 
hurried  forward,  with  elaborate  cordiality,  wonder- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  197 

ing,  among  other  things,  what  would  be  said  about 
Clarice's  change  of  residence,  hoping  that  it  had 
not  too  much  angered  her. 

She  had  just  gone  through  her  mail  and  found 
among  the  letters  one  or  two  extremely  pressing 
duns  from  people  whom  she  had  supposed  would 
be  content  to  wait  much  longer  for  their  money. 
That,  already  the  news  had  been  spread  broadcast 
that  the  Century  Trust,  Dick's  largest  creditors, 
had  refused  to  give  him  an  extension,  she  was  of 
course,  quite  ignorant,  but  after  their  talks,  she 
was  a  little  panic-stricken  at  the  thought  of  asking 
him  to  pay  these  unsuspected  liabilities,  and  there 
were  those  pink  pawn-tickets  in  the  wall-safe !  Aunt 
Gretchen's  coming  might  be  providential.  Instant- 
ly her  hopes  rose.  If  she  should  prove  to  be  not 
too  much  incensed  by  Clarice's  departure — possibly 
— she  might — • 

"Why  didn't  you  send  word  to  me  that 
Aunt  Gretchen  was  here?"  she  asked  pleasantly 
of  Dick. 

He  smiled  with  what  cheeriness  he  could  assume. 
"You'll  excuse  me,  now  you've  learned  it,"  he  said 
diplomatically. 

"Don't  go,  Dick,"  said  Aunt  Gretchen,  who  did 
not  wish  to  have  a  tete-a-tete  with  Frances. 

"I  must;  I  want  to  telephone  the  office.  I'll  be 
very  late !" 

Aunt  Gretchen  resigned,  perforce,  to  conversa- 
tion with  her  niece,  toward  whom  that  day,  she  felt 
especial  grievance,  turned  to  her  with  what  patience 
she  could  muster. 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you,  auntie,"  Frances  said, 


198  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

effusively.  She  advanced  as  if  to  kiss  her,  but  her 
aunt  withdrew  a  step  or  two. 

"You  don't  want  to  kiss  me,"  she  said  grimly, 
"and  I  don't  want  to  be  kissed.  Why  do  you  pre- 
tend to  be  so  glad?  You  after  money?" 

"Why,  auntie,"  Frances  cried,  "I  haven't  even 
mentioned  money!" 

"Well,  if  it  isn't  money,  then  what  is  it?" 


CHAPTER  XI 

Frances  was  abashed,  uncertain,  hesitant.  Aunt 
Gretchen  was  not  hesitant,  however.  Having 
waited  what  she  thought  a  quite  sufficient  time,  she 
asked  again  not  good-naturedly. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  she  demanded.  "If  it  isn't 
money,  what  then  is  it?" 

"Now,  Aunt  Gretchen !" 

"Don't  Aunt  Gretchen  me.  You  remember  what 
I  said  to  you  down  at  the  seashore  when  I  gave  you 
that  last  thousand!" 

Frances  looked  at  her,  half  in  appeal  and  half 
in  keen  annoyance.  It  seemed  very  inconsiderate 
to  her,  for  her  rich  aunt  to  bring  this  matter  up. 
She  had  herself,  almost  forgotten  it.  She  had  a 
way  of  letting  the  unpleasant  things  slip  from  her 
mind.  It  is  a  way  with  those  whose  brains  are  in- 
dolent; to  even  carry  in  their  minds  unpleasant 
things  is  something  of  an  effort — wrath  takes  vital- 
ity. She  did  not  know  just  what  to  say,  now  that 
her  aunt's  emphatic  speech  on  that  occasion  was 
recalled  so  forcibly  to  her. 

Gretchen  Jans  did  not  sit  silent  while  the  younger 
woman  tried  to  think  the  matter  out.  She  sat  at 
all  apparently,  with  much  suspicion  of  the  furniture 
and  only  on  the  very  edge  of  the  slim-legged  chair 
which  seemed  to  her  more  likely  than  any  other  in 
the  room  to  bear  her  weight  with  comfort  and 
some  degree  of  safety. 


200  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"I  don't  propose  to  work  like  a  dog  to  earn 
money  for  you  and  Clarice  to  squander,"  she  said 
firmly.  "It  made  you  both  uncomfortable — that 
unwillingness  of  mine,  and  now  you  both  have  left 
me.  You  eloped  and  Clarice  has  run  away.  ...  I 
miss  you,  in  a  way.  There  were  times  when  it  was 
really  agreeable  to  have  someone  who  was  young 
around,  but  all  the  waste  of  money — you're  a  fool 
and  Richard  is  a  fool  for  letting  you  be  a  fool. 
Now,  is  it  money,  or  isn't  it?" 

"I  do  wish  you'd  be  calm,"  said  Frances,  very 
greatly  flustered.  "You're  so  excitable  that  I  don't 
know  whether  I'm  on  my  head  or  my  heals." 

"And  you  don't  know  whether  it's  money  or  isn't 
money,  eh?"  Aunt  Gretchen  rose.  "Well,  you'll 
have  to  find  out  very  quickly,  for  I  can't  wait." 

"It's  not  money,"  Frances  stammered.  "That 
is — not  exactly." 

"Not  exactly,  eh?"  This  with  sarcastic  empha- 
sis. "Umph!  Not  exactly.  I  knew  it!" 

"I  don't  want  you  to  give  me  money,"  Frances 
said,  in  eager  explanation.  Her  face  was  flushed, 
her  voice  and  hands  a  little  tremulous,  her  wits 
entirely  scattered.  It  was  true  that  her  aunt  flus- 
tered her.  She  scarcely  did  know  whether  she  was 
standing  on  her  head  or  heels.  "No ;  I  didn't  mean 
to  ask  you  to  actually  give  me  any — I  wanted  to 
see  if  you  wouldn't  loan  me  some — just  for  a  few 
months — until  these  hard  times  are  over." 

"What  hard  times?  I  haven't  noticed  any  hard 
times." 

"Our  hard  times — Richard's  and  mine." 

Aunt  Gretchen  looked  around  the  ornate  and  ex- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  201 

pensive  room,  she  took  stock  of  her  niece's  gown, 
she  tapped  her  foot  upon  the  rich,  thick  rug. 

"Your  hard  times  won't  ever  be  over — not  if 
you  keep  on  the  way  you  have  been  going." 

"Richard's  had  a  lot  of  things  coming  due,  at 
once,  and  it  has — tied  him  up,  you  know.  The — 
house,  and — things.  In  a  month  or  so  everything 
will  be  all  right." 

Aunt  Gretchen  smiled  a  crafty  smile,  pretending 
that  she  had  at  last,  and  for  the  first  time,  come 
to  an  understanding  of  the  situation. 

"Oh,  Richard  wants  it  does  he?  Eh?  Why 
didn't  he  ask  me  for  it  then?  He's  just  been  here 
with  me,  and  if  he  hadn't,  he  knows  where  to  find 
me." 

Frances  was  becoming  more  and  more  confused. 
She  was  no  match  for  this  extremely  practical  old 
woman ;  she  had  never  been  a  match  for  her  in  any 
of  their  countless  battles  over  this  same  subject, 
money;  but  she  kept  on  trying  to  explain,  to  gloss 
over  her  extravagance  with  excuses  which,  even 
while  she  made  them,  she  was  conscious  were  quite 
futile. 

"It's  not  that,  exactly,"  she  said  timidly.  "You 
see,  it's  that  /  need  it.  There  were  some  bills,  you 
know,  that  I  expected  to  be  able  to  settle,  and — 
now  he  can't  let  me  have  the  money.  So — I 
thought  I'd  just  help  him  by  borrowing  it — some- 
where— and  then  he  can  pay  it  back  again  when 
some  of  his  money  shall  come  in."  Her  nervous 
voice  was  wheedling,  doubtful  of  its  own  convin- 
cing power,  very  plainly  almost  desperate. 

"A  very  bright  idea,"  Aunt  Gretchen's  voice 


202  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

was  sharply  sarcastic.  "A  very  bright  idea, 
Frances.  And  on  what  security  do  you  expect  to 
borrow  this  money?" 

This  was  entirely  unexpected  and  left  Frances 
speechless  for  an  instant.  "Why — I — er — hadn't 
thought  of  that.  I  knew  you  had  to  have  security 
to  pawn  things;"  (she  caught  her  breath  a  little 
quickly  after  that,  wondering  if  the  word  would 
attract  her  aunt's  attention,  but  it  did  not),  "but  I 
thought  when  you  borrowed,  you  just  borrowed!" 

"So  you  do  if  you  happen  to  control  a  chain  of 
banks.  But  not  with  me,  you  don't.  Before  I  let 
go  of  money,  I  want  to  see  collateral — and  I  gener- 
ally do." 

Frances  was  in  distress.  Her  voice  trembled  with 
her  disappointment.  "Then  you  won't — loan  me 
any  money?" 

"No  ma'am.  I  don't  see  any  valid  reason  why  I 
should  assist  you  to  become  any  more  of  a  fool 
than  you  are  at  present.  If  you  were  living  within 
your  means,  and  doing  the  best  you  could,  no  one 
would  be  quicker  to  help  you  than  I.  But  you 
aren't.  You  never  have  and  you  never  will.  Giv- 
ing money  to  you  means  sending  good  money  after 
bad,  and  bad  after  worse."  She  started  toward 
the  door.  "And  I  don't  propose  to  do  it." 

But  Frances  would  not  yet  give  up.  She  had 
never  wheedled  her  firm  aunt  successfully,  but — 
"Now  Aunt  Gretchen !"  she  said,  pleadingly. 

"That  won't  do  any  good,  either.  I  tell  you 
candidly,  Frances,  that  I  long  ago  became  so  dis- 
appointed in  you,  that,  of  late,  it's  ceased  to  be  a 
disappointment  at  all.  You're  taking  Clarice 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  203 

away  to  teach  her,  I  suppose  your  own  wise  methods 
of  managing  her  life.  That  settled  it,  I  guess.  At 
any  rate  it's  settled.  When  I  paid  for  all  those 
boarding-  and  finishing-schools,  and  convents,  and 
music-courses,  I  had  hopes  for  you.  But  they're 
gone,  now.  You've  been  married  several  years, 
now.  You've  neglected  your  duties  as  a  wife,  you 
have  denied  your  obligations  as  a  mother.  Why, 
there  ought  to  be  two  or  three  children  playing 
about  here,  this  minute." 

"A  woman's  sphere,"  said  Frances,  "comprises 
something  besides  children." 

"All  this  talk  about  a  woman's  sphere  makes  me 
sick.  A  woman's  sphere  is  first  to  be  a  mother, 
second  to  be  a  good  mother.  After  that  she  can  be 
a  doctor,  or  a  lawyer,  or  a  carpenter,  or  a  society 
leader,  or  a — or  a — suffragette.  Or  anything  she 
wants  to.  But  if  she  isn't  a  mother  first — huh! 
There  soon  won't  be  any  women  left  to  have  any 
spheres !" 

"But  if  Richard  and  I—" 

Her  aunt  again  laughed  scornfully.  "Oh,  it 
isn't  Richard.  It's  you.  And  it's  not  because  you 
can't  have  children,  it's  because  you  won't.  You're 
too  selfish." 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  her  with  contempla- 
tive, not  unkindly,  although  very  disapproving  eyes. 

"There's  a  lot  of  good  in  you,  Frances,"  she  went 
on,  at  length.  "But  the  trouble  is,  you've  never 
had  any  one  to  think  about  but  yourself.  And  the 
only  thing  that  will  ever  awaken  you  to  the  good 
that  lies  beneath  all  the  selfishness,  is  a  child.  Good 
mothers  don't  have  time  to  be  selfish.  After 


204  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

you've  lain  all  through  the  night  with  a  little,  new- 
born baby  whimpering  in  your  arms,  it  won't  make 
much  difference  whether  the  breakfast-table  in  the 
morning  is  decorated  with  carnations,  or  only  food. 
I  lost  my  baby.  I  lost  my  husband.  And  I've 
got  only  money." 

Frances  had  never  heard  her  aunt  talk  like  this 
before.  She  did  not  often  show  her  heart  to  any- 
one, this  richest  woman  in  New  York,  this  Gretchen 
Jans  whom  all  the  Sunday  supplements,  from  time 
to  time  had  illustrated  tales  of,  mostly  telling  of 
her  marvellous  ability  at  making  dollars  multiply 
or  of  her  parsimony  never  telling  of  the  nature 
of  the  heart  that  beat  beneath  the  plain  and  service- 
able woolen  gown  which  had  attracted  the  attention 
of  the  world  because,  upon  the  richest  woman  of 
her  time,  it  was  not  silk. 

"I  lost  them.  And  I've  got  only  money.  And 
I'd  give  every  dollar  of  it,  just  to  feel  those  little 
hands  against  my  cheeks.  A  woman  isn't  a  woman 
till  she  is  a  mother.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Frances — 
sorry  that  you  know  so  little.  But  now  you'll  pro- 
bably go  on  like  this,  till  the  end  of  your  days,  un- 
less something  shall  happen  to  change  utterly  the 
course  of  your  whole  life." 

Fiances  was  affected — but  not  at  all  as  her  Aunt 
Gretchen  looking  shrewdly,  keenly  at  her,  hoped 
against  hope  that  she  might  be.  The  reserved, 
misunderstood  old  woman  had  laid  bare  her  heart 
in  this  brusque  speech  as  she  had  never  laid  it  bare 
to  anyone  before,  and  she  wondered  if  it  might 
not — if  the  cold  and  cheerless  tragedy  of  the  blank 
canvas  which  the  picture  showed,  despite  its  frame 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  205 

of  gold,  might  not — arouse  some  of  the  feeling 
which  had  been  quite  stifled  in  her  niece's  breast 
by  the  mere  love  of  wastefulness,  extravagance. 

"Aunt  Gretchen!"  the  young  woman  cried,  im- 
pressed, but  not  as  her  aunt  had  hoped  that  she 
might  be. 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  poor,  for  a  while,"  said  the 
old  woman,  in  a  thoughtful,  not  unkindly  voice. 
"I'd  like  to  see  you  poor — so  downright  poor  that 
you  would  have  to  take  in  washing  and  scrub  floors. 
That's  your  only  chance  for  salvation;  and  I 
wouldn't  raise  a  finger  to  stop  it,  although  I  sup- 
pose we  all  have  helped  to  spoil  you.  But  it's  your 
own  fault  actually.  For  nobody  can  spoil  a  really 
good  thing.  It's  only  the  half-rotten  ones  that 
become  all  rotten.  Had  you  been  the  right 
sort  of  a  woman  you'd  have  derived  benefit  from 
the  things  you  have  let  only  injure  you." 

"But—" 

"When  you  begin  to  help  yourself,  then  I'll  begin 
to  help  you.  But  not  until  then." 

The  chatter  of  young  voices  broke  in  upon  them 
from  the  hallway,  and  an  instant  later,  Monty  and 
Clarice  came  in.  Clarice,  a  bit  nonplussed  for  just 
a  moment  at  the  sight  of  her  deserted  aunt,  soon 
regained  her  poise  and  hurried  toward  her. 

"Oh,  Aunt  Gretchen  1"  she  exclaimed.  "I  am 
so  glad  to  see  you." 

"You  needn't  be." 

"Are  you  so  very  angry  because  I've  come  up 
here  to  live?  Frances  and — er — Dick — they 
seemed  to  think  they  needed  me,  and — " 

"May  they  get  much  good  of  you,  Clarice." 


206  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Why,  auntie,  I—" 

"I've  just  been  giving  your  sister  a  little  lecture 
that  you  ask  her  to  repeat  to  you.  I  haven't  time, 
myself;  but  you  need  it,  just  as  badly  as  your  sister 
does — and  maybe  worse,  for  you  are  younger  and 
it  may  come  hi  time  to  do  some  good!" 

Clarice  gazed  at  her  in  shocked  distress,  and 
went  at  length  to  Frances.  They  then  stood  to- 
gether like  badly  frightened  children,  while  their 
aunt  looked  at  them. 

After  a  calm  survey  of  them  she  raised  her 
hands  and  dropped  them,  as  if  abandoning  a 
problem. 

"Where  you  two  girls  got  it  from,  I  don't  know. 
It  wasn't  from  your  mother;  it  certainly  has  not 
been  from  me.  It  must  have  been  from  your  poor 
father,  although  I  will  say  this  for  him — he  may 
have  been  a  fool,  but  he  was  honest — strictly 
honest." 

"But,  auntie — ",  said  Clarice,  glancing  nervous- 
ly at  Monty. 

Aunt  Gretchen  interrupted  her  without  the  least 
compunction.  "When  either  one  or  both  of  you 
make  up  your  minds  to  do  the  right  thing,  come  and 
see  me,  but  don't  come  until  then.  And  don't  come 
wearing  two-hundred-dollar  dresses,  eighty-dollar 
hats  and  twelve-dollar  shoes." 

Without  another  word  she  left  the  room,  as  fast 
as  her  firm,  steady  tread  would  carry  her  and  then 
left  the  house  entirely. 

"Stingy  old  thing!"  Clarice  exclaimed,  looking 
after  her  with  a  fiercely  puckered  brow  and  tapping 
foot. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  207 

"With  all  her  money,  too !"  said  Frances.  "Talk 
about  one's  family — I — " 

"One's  family  will  do  less  for  one  than  strangers, 
every  time.  What  did  she  say  to  you,  Fran?" 

"Oh,  the  same  old  thing."  Frances  turned 
away,  with  a  gesture  of  great  weariness,  discourag- 
ment  and  woe.  "Wants  me  to  live  on  bread  and 
water — in  a  tent — and — take  in  floors  to  scrub!" 

"When  people  get  a  little  money,"  said  her  sister, 
with  a  philosophy  which  often  is  subscribed  to  by 
much  older  persons,  believed  by  many  to  be  ex- 
tremely wise,  "they  always  want  to  see  other 
people  as  uncomfortable  as  possible." 

Monty,  before  the  brusque  visitor's  departure 
and  during  the  brief  colloquy  between  the  sisters, 
had  remained  entirely  silent.  Aunt  Gretchen,  as 
she  passed  him,  had  made  no  sign  of  recognition, 
whether  because  she  merely  did  not  see  him,  be- 
cause  she  saw  him  and  did  not  think  him  of  enough 
importance  to  be  recognized,  or  because  she  saw 
and  recognized  him  and  decided  to  have  none  of 
him  because  she  thought  that  in  some  way  he  had 
been  a  party  to  the  defection  of  Clarice,  he  did  not 
know.  He  was  very  vividly  embarrassed,  and 
rather  hated  to  look  now  at  either  of  the  sisters, 
but  they  did  not  seem  to  be  embarrassed — they 
were  merely  very  angry  at  their  aunt. 

"Monty's  going  to  take  me  in  the  country  in  the 
car — want  to  come?"  said  Clarice  to  her  sister, 
failing  to  find  further  words  to  utter  on  the  other 
subject. 

"No,"  said  Frances. 

"Well,  goodbye." 


208  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Goodbye." 

The  two  young  folks  departed.  Frances,  after 
a  doleful  look  at  everything  about  the  room — the 
dainty  and  expensive  room  which  she  had  spent 
so  much  of  her  own  time  and  so  much  of  Richard's 
money  in  outfitting,  but  out  of  which,  because  she 
did  not  have  more  of  the  money,  she  was  getting 
very  little  pleasure — sank  down  on  the  couch. 

"Elise !"  she  called,  in  languid,  woeful  voice. 

Like  magic  the  French  maid  (who  had  been 
listening,  endeavoring,  without  much  real  success, 
to  follow  what  was  said  inside  the  room),  came 
in.  "Madame!" 

"Elise,  bring  me  a  cup  of  chocolate." 

From  another  door  came  Richard,  his  face  more 
worried  in  its  look  than  ever,  his  hands  full  of 
folded  papers. 

"What,  not  gone  yet?"  she  said,  surprised  at 
seeing  him. 

He  shook  his  head,  and  sat  down  near  her. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Things  were  going  very  ill  with  Richard  Ward 
— much  worse  than  he  had  thought  they  could  go. 
Everywhere  he  turned  he  found  the  influence  at 
work  against  him  to  be  so  malign,  so  clever,  so  mys- 
terious that  he  could  not  combat  it,  could  not  even 
identify  it.  Beginning  with  mild  summer,  during 
Frances'  absense  at  the  seashore,  this  had  been 
persistent,  baffling,  constantly  more  serious.  No 
sooner  had  he  thought  he  had  discovered  who  his 
enemy  or  enemies,  might  be,  than  something  hap- 
pened which  disproved  at  once  his  surmise.  No 
sooner  did  he  think  he  had  devised  a  way  of  coping 
with  the  situation  with  success  than  some  new  move, 
of  ingenuity  akinto  the  infernal,  it  seemed  to  him, 
defeated  him,  or  if  it  did  not  do  quite  that,  so  trou- 
bled him  that  it  most  seriously  sapped  his  fighting 
strength  for  the  next  battle — which,  invariably, 
came  with  the  next  day. 

That  his  secret  enemy  was  armed  with  money 
without  limit  was  plain  for,  more  than  once,  brokers 
had  been  sent  upon  the  floor  to  fight  him  who,  by 
doing  so,  lost  heavily  (or  seemed  to),  in  order  to 
accomplish  his  undoing.  The  fight  shifted  too, 
from  one  firm  to  another,  so  that  he  never  knew, 
from  day  to  day,  beneath  what  banner  the  next 
battle  would  be  fought  against  him.  This,  added 
to  the  strain  of  constantly  increasing  home-expenses 
which  had  grown  beyond  the  limit  which,  in  his 


2IO 


bachelor  days,  sophisticated  though  he  had  been, 
he  had  dreamed  the  household  costs  of  a  childless 
couple  could  not  reach — had  sapped  the  man's 
financial  strength  and,  sapping  that,  had  also  sapped 
his  nerve.  Within  the  year  he  had  aged  ten,  and 
now  continued  and  successful  opposition  had  about 
succeeded  in  forcing  him  to  desperation. 

He  did  not  wish  to  tell  his  wife  these  things,  first 
because  he  did  not  wish  to  worry  her,  second  be- 
cause he  did  not  think  that  she  would  understand, 
or  understanding,  be  impressed  sufficiently  to  de- 
finitely and  effectively  lend  aid  by  doing  the  one 
thing  which  he  so  often  had  urged  on  her — cutting 
down  expenses.  Still  he  saw  no  way  by  which  he 
could  avoid  a  long  and  serious  talk  with  her,  many 
times  he  had  evaded  it,  but  now  the  need  was  des- 
perate and,  after  careful  thought,  he  had  fixed  upon 
this  day  as  the  occasion  for  it.  That  had  given  him 
the  motive  for  returning  early — that  and  the  neces- 
sity for  a  long  talk  with  Cartwright,  which  he  did 
not  wish  to  have  occur  down  at  his  office  where,  of 
late,  the  very  walls  had  seemed  to  have  keen  ears 
for  business  secrets. 

"I  came  home,"  he  said  to  her,  "because  I 
wanted  to  think  things  over — and  to  talk  with  you. 
And  Cartwright's  coming  later." 

She  frowned.  The  calm  silent  Cartwright's  de- 
meanor when  they  chanced  to  be  together  always 
disconcerted  her.  She  thought  his  influence  on 
Dick  was  growing  too,  and  she  felt  certain  that 
that  influence  was  critical  of  her. 

"I  won't  have  to  see  him  will  I?" 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  211 

Richard  looked  at  her  with  heavy,  tired  eyes. 
"I  am  afraid  you  will,  dear." 

She  was  annoyed.  "But  why?  What  can  he 
possibly  have  to  say  that  will  interest  me?" 

He  shook  his  head  and  did  not  look  at  her.  "I 
don't  know,  yet.  Maybe  much.  I  hope  little." 

"Business?" 

"Yes." 

"I  hate  business." 

Richard  did  not  look  at  her,  he  did  not  throw  off 
the  tired  droop  which  slumped  his  shoulders,  he 
did  not  manage  to  relieve  his  voice  of  its  flat, 
weary  note.  "I  am  beginning  to,  myself  Frances." 

"And  I  don't  like  Cart-wright." 

"He's  a  good  lawyer,"  said  her  husband,  dully, 
"and  my  closest  friend." 

"I  know,"  said  she.  "I  suppose  I  ought  to  like 
him,  for  your  sake,  Richard.  But  I  just  can't.  He 
doesn't  like  me." 

"Nonsense." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  nonsense.  He  didn't  want  you  to 
marry  me  in  the  first  place."  She  set  her  lips  a 
little  tightly  and  tapped  her  foot  against  the  rug. 
"And  I'll  never  forgive  him  for  it — never!" 

"Didn't  want  me  to  marry  you?  Why,  dear, 
that's  silly." 

"It  isn't  silly  at  all.  It's  so.  Didn't  he  try  to 
dissuade  you  from  it?  Didn't  he  tell  you  I  was  silly 
and  vain  and  extravagant?  Didn't  he?" 

Cartwright  had  intimated  all  these  things  a 
hundred  times,  and  Richard  well  remembered  it. 
He  had  not  said  them  in  so  many  words  perhaps, 
but  he  had  indicated  that  he  thought  them  in  a 


2i2  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

hundred  ways  which  Richard  had  not  found  too 
hard  to  understand.  During  their  long  and  fine 
companionship  he  had  learned  how  to  interpret  the 
unexpressed  meanings  of  the  silent  man  with  an  un- 
erring accuracy,  and  he  never  doubted  that  there 
were  a  thousand  things  about  the  woman  he  had 
learned  to  love  of  which  Cartwright  disapproved 
— would  not  have  failed  to  know  it,  even  if  Phil 
had  not,  upon  that  notable  occasion,  broken  what 
amounted  to  a  rule  with  him  and  actually  said  his 
say  in  words.  But  of  course  he  would  not  admit 
these  things  to  her.  And  Cartwright  had  not  in- 
fluenced him.  The  fact  that  he  had  fought  for  her 
and  won  her  in  despite  of  him  was  evidence  enough, 
he  thought,  that  he  cared  more  for  her  than  for  his 
chum's  opinion. 

"Didn't  he?"  she  insisted. 

"Now,  my  dear  girl,  please  let's  talk  sense." 

"Didn't  he  say  those  things?" 

He  tried  to  smile  indulgently  at  her.  "Well, 
you  are  extravagant,  aren't  you?" 

It  instantly  changed  their  position,  putting  her 
on  the  defensive,  where  he  had  been. 

"Well,"  she  admitted,  "perhaps  I  am — just  the 
least  little  bit.  But — I  love  pretty  things  so, 
Dick." 

"So  do  I,"  he  said.  "That's  why  I  married 
you." 

Now  his  smile  was  genuine  and  he  went  to  her 
and  put  his  arm  about  her.  She  worried  him,  some- 
times almost  beyond  endurance,  but  he  never  for  a 
second  stopped  loving  her.  He  never  saw  her  that 
she  did  not  make  a  new  appeal  to  him. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  213 

"Oh,  you  dear!"  she  cried.  She  was  drinking 
chocolate  and  held  the  cup  out  toward  him  prettily. 
Her  little  ways  were  fascinating.  "You  may  have 
a  sip  of  my  chocolate  for  that." 

He  smiled  very  fondly  at  her. 

"But  was  that  the  only  reason  why  you  married 
me?  No — you  shan't  have  the  chocolate — not  if 
you  married  me  just  because  you  thought  me 
pretty." 

"I  didn't,"  he  said,  his  smile  fading  now  a  little, 
into  very  actual  earnestness.  "I  married  you  be- 
cause I  loved  you." 

"That  was  nice.  Now  you  may  have  all  the 
chocolate." 

"I've  had  luncheon,  thank  you — all  I  care  for." 

This  by-play  had  relieved  her.  By-plays  always 
did.  She  felt  triumphant  ever,  if  she  managed  to 
dodge  serious  talk  with  Richard.  She  hated  serious 
talk  with  him,  or  anyone.  It  always  ended  in  some 
criticism  of  her — of  some  talk  about  economy. 
Economy.  She  hated  the  mere  word!  She  had 
been  hopeful — but  now  his  face  was  grave  again. 
She  felt  that  she  was  sadly  burdened. 

"O-o-o-oh!  You  scorn  my  gifts!  Well,  then,  I 
will  drink  it  myself." 

As  she  sipped  the  chocolate  she  looked  at  him 
out  of  the  corners  of  her  eyes,  trying  to  be  sure  if 
his  unusual  presence  at  the  house  at  that  hour  really 
portended  anything  so  very  disagreeable.  "You 
look  so  serious,  Richard." 

She  was  almost  sorry  she  had  said  it.  Instantly 
his  face  lost  what  little  of  light  gaiety  there  had 
been  on  it. 


2i4  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"With  reason,  dear,"  he  said,  and  then  paused, 
trying  to  devise  a  way  of  saying  what  he  had  to 
say  with  as  small  offense  as  possible.  "Frances,  I 
don't  want  to  seem  disagreeable,  but  we  must  cut 
down  expenses.  We  really  must,  dear." 

She  frowned  a  little — prettily,  but  still  she 
frowned.  "You  just  said  you  didn't  want  to  be 
disagreeable." 

"I  don't,  but—" 

"And  then  you  go  right  and  do  it." 

He  was  nervous  and  unhappy,  but  the  situation 
forced  him  to  go  on,  even  against  his  will — almost 
as  much  against  his  own  as  hers.  "I'm  sorry,  dear, 
but—" 

"Now  please,  Richard,  don't  let's  quarrel,"  said 
she.  She  looked  at  him  reprovingly,  as  if  the 
fault  were  wholly  his. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  with  a  persistence  which  sur- 
prised her,  with  a  determination  which  surprised 
himself,  a  determination  which  was  plain  despera- 
tion, really,  "but  there  must  be  a  change  in  that, 
too — in  the  way  they  end.  We're  spending  too 
much  money,  and  we  must  stop.  I — I'm  sorry, 
little  girl.  I'd  like  to  give  you  everything  that  you 
want,  but  I  can't.  Simply  can't.  You  understand?" 

His  evident  distress  made  its  appeal  to  her — its 
real  appeal  to  her.  She  went  to  him  impulsively 
and  his  face  lighted  as  if  somebody  had  given  him 
a  gift.  "Then  what  can  I  do  to  help  you?"  she 
said  anxiously,  with  a  really  wifely  manner. 

"We'll — have  to  give  the  house  up."  It  was 
plain  enough  that  these  words  cost  him  very  dear. 
He  spoke  them  with  an  effort.  It  cut  him  to  the 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  215 

quick  to  have  to  say  a  thing  like  that  just  after  they 
had  gone  into  the  place.  "We — must  move  to  a 
smaller  place,  at  once;  keep  fewer  servants — " 

"But  dear,"  she  said,  aghast,  "this  is  the  house 
we've  built!  How  foolish  to  build  a  house  and 
then  at  once  move  out  of  it !  And  as  for  a  smaller 
place — why  Richard,  even  this  is  scarcely  large 
enough.  I've  been  wondering  to-day,  why  we  didn't 
add  another  story.  We  have  but  four  spare  rooms, 
now." 

The  thought  of  giving  up  the  house  was  bitter, 
also  to  his  soul — as  bitter  as  he  knew,  it  must  in- 
evitably be  to  her,  when  she  should  come  to  take 
it  seriously,  which  she  plainly  did  not  do  as  yet.  He 
himself,  began  to  offer  substitutes. 

"Economize  upon  the  servants,  then." 

She  shook  her  head  as  if  the  very  thought  were 
foolish.  "We  have  only  two  maids,  the  butler  and 
Elise  now,  Richard!  And  the  chauffeur,  of  course." 

"Your  personal  bills,"  he  said,  persisting,  in  spite 
of  the  too  evident  fact  that,  really  he  was  not  im- 
pressing her,  at  all.  "A  hundred  for  a  hat !  Four 
hundred  for  a  gown!  It  would  be  all  right  if  I 
were  a  millionaire,  Frances,  but  I'm  not.  So  far 
from  it  are  the  facts  that  I  have  nothing — nothing 
but  debts  to  show  for  all  my  years  of  hard  work. 
I  don't  care  you  you  economize,  Frances,  but 
economize  we  must." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  looking  at  him  with 
plain  disapproval.  Once  she  opened  her  lips  as  if 
to  answer  him,  then  closed  them  and  turned  away. 
Instead  of  saying  anything  to  him  whatever  she 
raised  her  voice  and  cried:  "Elise!"  She  dwelt 


216  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

on  the  word  and  made  it  an  expression  of  annoyance 
against  him. 

The  French  maid  came  in  softly,  deftly,  paying 
no  attention  to  the  master  of  the  house,  looking 
only  at  her  mistress. 

"Give  me  a  magazine,  Elise." 

The  maid  brought  one  from  a  table  which 
Frances  could  herself  have  reached  with  but  slight 
effort.  "Anything  else,  Madame?" 

"No."  As  the  maid  went  out,  Frances  would 
have  settled  as  if  to  read,  without  further  regard 
for  her  annoying  husband. 

But  the  time  had  come  when  he  was  absolutely 
forced  to  bring  some  order  out  of  all  the  chaos  of 
expenditure  which  had  begun  to  drag  him,  he  saw 
clearly,  close  to  an  abyss'  edge  which  he  feared 
even  to  look  over.  Not  roughly,  but  with  a  firm- 
ness new  to  him,  he  went  to  her  and  took  the  maga- 
zine out  of  her  hands. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  quite  unangered,  unresist- 
ing, but  with  calm,  patient  protest. 

"I  told  you  that  I  was  quite  ready  to  do  anything 
I  could  to  help  you,  Dick.  But  we  must  live  decent- 

iy." 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  go  to  a  hotel?"  he 
asked;  "give  up  one  of  the  cars  or,  better  still,  give 
them  all  up  and  use  taxis  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  something  like  a  pitying 
incredulity.  It  was  not  at  all  as  if  she  feared  that 
she  might  really  have  to  do  preposterous  things 
like  those,  but  rather,  that  she  thought  he  must  be 
mad  so  much  as  to  suggest  them.  "Not  even  a 
town  ear." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  217 

He  nodded. 

"Why,  Richard,"  she  said  coldly,  "you're  getting 
positively  niggardly !" 

He  made  no  protest,  no  defense,  and  more  un- 
usual, did  not  yield.  He  could  not  yield. 

"I've  been  making  about  twenty  thousand  a 
year,"  said  he.  "We've  been  spending  twenty-five. 
When  I  was  making  ten  we  were  spending  fifteen. 
I  don't  want  to  complain,  Frances,  but  we  must  cut 
down  expenses.  We  must  not  spend  all,  and  more ; 
we  must  spend  part  and  save  part.  I  don't  care 
how  you  do  it,  as  long  as  you  do  do  it.  Keep  fewer 
servants,  fewer  motors,  move  to  a  smaller  house, 
spend  less  for  dress  and  entertainment.  Any  or 
all  of  these  courses  are  open  to  you.  Take  which- 
ever one  you  will,  but  save  enough  so  that  it  won't 
cost  us  over  ten  thousand  a  year  to  live.  Will  you 
do  this  for  me?"  His  voice  was  very  tense,  and 
there  was  hope  in  it,  although  the  hope  was  not  so 
strong  as  it  had  once  been.  It  gave  his  tone  a  little 
ring,  but  not  the  vibrant,  vital  ring  it  would  have 
given  it  a  year  before  if  he  had  asked  a  favor  of 
her  then — he  had  lost  some  measure  of  his  confi- 
dence in  her. 

She  responded,  but  with  reservations.  "Why,  of 
course,  Richard,  I'll  do  anything  for  you — any- 
thing ! — only  I  must  be  able  to  keep  my  friends." 

His  lips  tightened.  His  brow  darkened.  His 
eyes  chilled.  Still  his  voice  was  even,  not  in  the 
least  angry;  but  there  was  in  it  that  cold  quality  of 
real  finality  which  she  had  not  before  heard  in  it. 
"If  the  keeping  of  friends  means  the  sending  of 
your  husband  into  bankruptcy,  get  new  friends. 


2i 8  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

There  are  as  good  people  living  on  sixty  dollars 
a  week  as  on  six  hundred — and  better." 

It  was  plain  now,  that  she  wished  to  put  the 
whole  thing  from  her.  She  was  tired  of  it,  not  at 
all  in  sympathy  with  it,  almost  disgusted.  Not 
knowing  how  she  could  refuse,  not  willing  to  con- 
sent, she  wished  to  temporize.  "I'll  think  it  over, 
Richard,  and  then  we'll  decide  what  is  best  to  do." 

"You've  said  that  before,"  he  answered,  without 
showing  any  sign  of  giving  back  an  inch  from  his 
position.  "And  it  has  resulted  in  nothing.  Now 
we  haven't  left  to  us  the  time  for  thinking.  You 
must  realize  that,  Frances.  You  must  realize  it. 
We  must  do  I" 

"You're  positively  brutal,"  she  declared  really 
angry  "Surely  a  few  days  more  or  less  can't  make 
any  difference." 

"A  few  hours  make  a  difference,  now,"  he  an- 
swered. "Frances,  I'm  seriously  involved.  If  we 
don't  give  up  this  house  it  may  be  taken  from  us. 
Do  you  understand?  I  have  notes  falling  due — ob- 
ligations to  meet.  In  trying  to  get  money  for  you 
to  spend  I  haven't  had  time  to  look  behind  me. 
Whatever  lay  before  me  to  seize  I  have  seized. 
Whatever  lay  behind  me  I  have  fled  from.  Now, 
suddenly,  the  end,  of  which  I  would  not  admit  the 
possibility,  although  my  reason  warned  me  of  it, 
really  has  come." 

He  turned  from  her  and  took  a  nervous  turn  or 
two. 

"That  is  why  Cartwright  is  coming — he  has  been 
up  all  night  going  over  the  wreckage  that  is  left. 
Frances,  I  haven't  asked  much  of  you  since  we  were 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  219 

married.  We  haven't  lived  at  all  as  I've  wanted  to 
live,  but  you  were  happy,  and  I  tried  to  be." 

Again  he  paused  and  took  a  few  nervous  steps, 
needing  time  for  the  arrangement  of  his  words. 

"I  wanted  children,  you  did  not,  and  we  are 
childless,"  he  went  on.  "I  wanted  a  little  home 
in  which  we  could  be  by  ourselves  and  of  ourselves. 
You  wanted  a  big  house  and  servants — society  and 
all  the  turmoil  that  it  means.  We  have  had  the 
big  house,  the  servants,  the  society,  the  turmoil. 
I  tried  not  to  complain,  because  I  didn't  expect  you 
to  like  a  thing  just  because  I  liked  it.  And  until 
now  I  have  given  all,  and  more  than  I  had  any  right 
to  give.  We  have  lived  all  your  way.  It  has 
brought — disaster." 

He  stopped  now  in  his  walking,  and  raised  his 
head  and  looked  at  her.  He  had  never  looked  at 
her  like  that  in  all  their  married  life  before. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "we  must  live  my  way.  Instead 
of  fitting  our  income  to  our  wishes,  we  must  fit  our 
wishes  to  our  income."  He  gazed  on,  steadily,  not 
unkindly,  but  in  a  way  which  left  no  doubt  that  he 
was  very  much  in  earnest.  "Do  you  under- 
stand?" 

She  did  not  reply  to  his  question,  she  did  not 
comment  on  any  of  the  points  which  he  had  made. 
Instead  her  eyes  filled  brimming  full  of  tears  and 
in  her  voice  appeared  the  tearful  tremolo  of  injury 
and  reproach.  "Richard,"  she  declared,  "I  be- 
lieve you're  sorry  you  married  me!" 

"No,  dear." 

She  walked  away  from  him,  her  shoulders  sag- 
ging in  deep  misery,  her  feet  dragging  in  a  listless 


220  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

step.  "Yes  you  are,  too !  Oh,  I'm  miserable !  I 
could  cry!" 

His  determination  weakened  and  the  firmness 
vanished  from  his  voice.  "Now,  dear — "  he  plead- 
ed. 

j"Men  know  nothing  of  the  suffering — the  care 
of  children,"  she  plaintively  insisted.  Then,  almost 
spitefully:  "If  a  man  only  had  to  have  one,  him- 
self, he'd  never  ask  a  woman  to !" 

His  poise  was  gone.    "Now,  my  dear  girl,  I — " 

Her  tears  were  coming  fast,  but  they  were  not 
humble — she  was  injured,  deeply  injured  and,  see- 
ing that  at  last  she  had  him  quite  on  the  defensive, 
she  pursued  her  great  advantage  with  unrelenting 
persistence.  "I'm  sorry  that  I've  failed  you  so 
utterly!  I'm  sorry  that  you  feel  your  marriage  to 
me  was  such  a  mistake !  I'm  sorry  that  I've  brought 
you  nothing  but  worry  and  unhappiness !" 

She  did  not  do  the  things  which  he  had  suggested 
even  the  honor  of  considering  them.  If  any  change 
whatever  was  to  be  made  in  their  relations  to  the 
world,  their  mode  of  life,  it  meant  (she  instantly 
assumed)  that  their  relations  to  the  world  must 
cease  entirely  and  their  mode  of  life  change  utter- 

iy. 

"Very  well!"  she  almost  wailed.  "I'll  go  away. 
I  can  leave  you.  You  can  live  as  you  choose,  then. 
You  won't  have  to  worry  about  my  extravagancies 
and  uselessness.  You  can  marry  someone  else — " 
she  was  very  angry  now,  and  hurled  these  final  sen- 
tences at  him  with  sobbing,  almost  incoherent  vehe- 
mence, " — who  will  give  you  the  children  and  the 
home  that  I  have  failed  to  give  you." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  221 

He  was  defeated.  He  did  not,  in  the  least,  know 
how  to  cope  with  her.  "Now,  don't  be  foolish, 
dear—" 

She  ran  quickly  to  a  sofa  burying  her  head  upon 
her  crossed  hands  at  its  top,  not  again  becoming 
vehement,  not  allowing  tears  or  sobs  enough  to 
come  to  again  make  her  incoherent  in  the  least, 
but  wearing  on  her  face  a  look  of  hopeless  misery. 
"I've  tried  so  hard  to  have  things  right  for  you — 
to  have  our  home  attractive — to  keep  the  right 
kind  of  friends  for  you."  Now,  at  length,  she 
yielded  unreservedly  to  woe.  "I  am  so  miserable 
I  wish  I  were  dead!" 

It  was  too  much  for  Richard  Ward.  He  went 
to  her  contritely,  tenderly  touched  her  shoulder, 
petted  her  hair.  "There,  there — don't  you  under- 
stand? It  isn't  that.  I  love  you — don't  you  know 
I  love  you?" 

Her  words  came  brokenly.  "But  you  don't  treat 
me  at  though  you  did." 

"Ah,  but  I  do,  little  girl,"  he  fervently  assured 
her.  "And  there's  no  great  harm  done — no  harm 
that  can't  be  undone."  It  cut  his  heart  not  to  be 
able  to  assure  her  that,  after  all,  she  need  not  do 
the  things  she  so  disliked  to  do.  "Just  be  calm, 
and  think  things  over  sensibly.  All  we  need  is  a 
little  judicious  economy.  We  can  still  have  all  we 
need,  if  not  all  we  want.  A  smaller  house,  or  an 
apartment,  a  couple  of  servants,  one  motor;  we 
could  be  very  comfortable  on  a  thousand  a  month, 
dear." 

But  this  did  not  comfort  her  at  all.  The  idea 
was  repulsive  to  her. 


222  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"And  have  all  our  friends  laughing  at  us !" 

That  roused  him  a  little.  ''Friends  of  that 
kind,"  he  declared  with  emphasis,  "one  is  better  oft' 
without." 

He  stood  over  her,  as  she  sat  sobbing  there,  and 
hoped  against  hope  that,  presently,  she  would  raise 
her  head  and  smile  at  him  with  a  brave  smile,  tell- 
ing him  that  he  was  right — that  if  he  thought  that 
these  things  must  be  done,  why,  she  would  stand 
close  by  his  side,  her  shoulder  against  his,  and  help 
make  the  fight  which  would  relieve  his  worries.  But 
she  did  not  do  these  things.  Instead,  without  so 
much  as  looking  at  him,  she  wailed,  dolefully: 

"Elise!    Elise!" 

Miserably  unhappy  he  went  out  as  the  French 
maid  came  in. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

As  Ward  passed  through  the  door  she  looked  up 
and  gazed  after  him  a  little  furtively.  Her  face  did 
not  show  traces  of  such  violent  weeping  as  her 
shoulders  and  her  sobs,  while  he  had  been  in  the 
room  with  her,  had  indicated  to  him.  Indeed  there 
was  almost  as  much  resentment  as  there  was  real 
grief  in  her  indignant  eyes,  as  they  followed  his 
bent-shouldered,  tired  figure  till  it  passed  through 
the  curtains  between  the  morning-room  and  hall 
and  disappeared. 

The  maid  stood  waiting;  silent.    "Madame?" 

"Powder,  Elise,  and  rouge." 

They  were  supplied  and,  with  her  own  deft 
hands,  she  made  the  applications  necessary  to  ef- 
face the  signs  of  grief.  They  really  were  not  very 
many,  and  as  soon  as  she  saw  in  the  small  hand- 
glass which  the  maid  presented  to  her  without  be- 
ing told  to,  that  traces  of  her  indignation  were 
much  more  plainly  visible  upon  her  lovely  face 
than  traces  of  her  tears,  she  smoothed  the  wrinkles 
from  her  brow  at  once  without  much  effort,  assum- 
ing, now  a  look  of  resignation,  saintlike,  lovely. 
She  looked  at  every  portrait  of  hurt  righteousoess, 
and  spoke  almost  calmly,  although  there  still  was 
a  faint  trace  in  her  articulation  of  the  sobs  which 
had  been  so  violent  when  Richard  had  been  there. 

"Elise,"  she  said,  beginning  a  conversation  with 
reflective  face. 


224 THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Madame?" 

"One  has  so  much  trouble  when  one  is  married, 
Elise.  Don't  ever  have  a  husband.  .  . .  Do  I  look 
all  right?" 

"Ah,  beautiful,  Madame." 

"Thank  you,  Elsie.  Put  the  things  back.  I  am 
through  with  them.  And  bring  me  a  newspaper." 

Faintly  the  soft,  rich  booming  of  the  electric- 
bell's  padded  hammer  on  its  gong,  throbbed 
through  the  room.  "See  who  it  is,  Elise,  and  let 
me  know.  If  it  is  the  man  about  the  car — the  one 
who  was  to  bring  a  new  car  here,  to-day,  to  show 
me,  tell  him  .  .  .  tell  him  to  call  again  in  ...  oh, 
in  a  day  or  two." 

"Bien,  Madame." 

A  moment  later  the  French  maid  came  back. 
"It  is  the  M'sieu  Cartwright." 

"To  see  Mr.  Ward,  of  course." 

The  maid  bowed. 

"Have  him  shown  into  the  library." 

But  Cartwright,  mistaking  Elise's  intention,  had 
followed  at  the  maid's  trim  heels.  "I  beg  your 
pardon !"  he  exclaimed  when  he  discovered  not  the 
master,  but  the  mistress  of  the  house,  awaiting  him. 

"Come  in.  Richard  is  somewhere,  and  is  ex- 
pecting you.  He  told  me  you  were  coming."  She 
looked  at  the  man  keenly — more  keenly  than  he 
did  at  her,  for  his  eyes  were,  for  the  most  part,  dis- 
creetly lowered. 

He  knew  that,  really,  he  was  her  antagonist  and 
did  not  enjoy  that  feeling  toward  a  woman  and  his 
best  friend's  wife.  In  these  days  he  never  was 
•quite  comfortable  in  Frances'  presence;  now,  there 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  225 

in  the  house  with  her,  without  her  husband's  brac- 
ing presence,  for  the  first  time  in  the  very  midst  of 
what  he  knew  to  be  the  monumental  folly  which 
Ward's  love  for  her  had  led  him  to  commit,  he 
knew  that  he  was  more  than  likely  to  be  unfairly 
critical  of  her.  He  did  not  wish  to  be  unfair  to 
anyone.  The  thought  that  he  might  be  was  far 
more  worrisome  to  him  than  it  would  be  to  her, 
he  knew,  even  if  she  should  suspect  it.  He  stood 
awkwardly  and  gazed  about  the  spacious,  elabo- 
rately rugged  floor. 

She  was  conscious  of  this  and  it  did  not  in  the 
least  displease  her.  "You  haven't  been  in  this 
room  of  the  new  house  before,  have  you?" 

"No." 

"Like  it?" 

"It's  all  very  pretty,"  he  replied,  glancing  care- 
fully (not  furtively:  Cartwright  was  not  at  all 
afraid  of  her,  she  merely  made  him  feel  uncom- 
fortable), "but — not  for  me.  I  want  things  I  can 
— put  my  feet  on." 

Seeing  his  discomfort  she  was  filled  with  a  desire 
to  make  it  more  acute.  "You  don't  like  me,  do 
you  Mr.  Cartwright?"  she  inquired  abruptly. 

The  directness  of  the  challenge  confused  him  for 
an  instant,  although  Cartwright  was  not  one  to  be 
easily  confused.  "Why,  I — that  is — " 

She  laughed  merrily,  a  bit  coquettishly,  perhaps. 
"You  needn't  be  embarrassed. ...  I  don't  like  you, 
either,  you  know." 

He  looked  at  her  and  smiled  with  a  certain  kind 
of  admiration.  This  seemed  certainly  to  be  fair 
fighting  and  fair  fighting  he  approved  of,  no  matter 


226  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

who  the  fighter  might  be.  But  no  reply  occurred  to 
him,  so  he  made  none. 

"Why  don't  you  like  me?"  she  insisted,  pleased 
to  have  him  at  what  she  recognized  as  a  decided 
disadvantage. 

But  Cartwright  was  a  lawyer  and  not  to  be  so 
lightly  trapped.  "Suppose  you  tell  me  first,  why 
you  don't  like  me." 

She  did  not  hesitate,  as  he  had.  "Well,  I  think 
you're  cold  and  hard  and  unsympathetic  and  don't 
understand  women  very  well." 

He  smiled  faintly.  "I  used  to  be  a  traveling 
salesman,"  he  ventured. 

"That  might  explain  why  you  are  cold  and  hard 
and  unsympathetic,  but  it  does  not  necessarily  signi- 
fy that  you  understand  women." 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Ward,  when  women  don't  even 
understand  themselves,  how  can  a  man  hope  to  do 
so?" 

She  shook  her  head.  She  quite  recognized  that 
she  was  battling  with  him  and  she  thoroughly  en- 
joyed it.  "Now  you're  evading." 

Again  he  smiled  his  little  smile,  acknowledging 
the  weakness  of  a  man  engaged  in  argument  against 
a  woman.  "That's  my  only  chance." 

"The  old  cry!"  she  exclaimed  in  dainty  scorn. 
"The  man  has  logic,  the  woman  only  intuition!" 

"Whereby,"  said  he,  still  smiling,  "the  woman 
is  the  better  equipped,  for  the  man  is  hampered  by 
rules.  The  woman  can  bite,  kick,  hit  below  the 
belt  and  strike  in  the  breakaways."  He  was  very 
careful  to  keep  the  little  smile  upon  his  face,  so 
that  there  could  be  no  assumption  that  he  really 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  227 

was  very  serious.  "When  women  get  to  be  lawyers 
and  judges  I'm  going  to  quit  and  go  to  digging 
clams.  Clams  have  no  intuition." 

"So  much  the  worse  for  the  clams." 

"But  so  much  the  better  for  the  man  who  has  to 
dig  them." 

"Well,  I  told  you  why  I  didn't  like  you." 

His  smile  broadened  the  least  bit.  "I'm  much 
obliged." 

"Now  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  why  you  don't 
like  me?" 

There  was  not  a  moment's  hesitation  in  his  an- 
swer. It  returned  with  almost  startling  prompt- 
ness. "No." 

"Oh,"  she  cried,  "but  that's  not  fair,  you  know!" 

He  did  not  protest  against  the  charge.  "I'm 
sorry,"  he  said  frankly,  "but  I'm  taking  no 
chances." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  slow  appraise- 
ment, not  friendly — not  pretending  to  be  friendly. 
"You  don't  seem  at  all  like  other  men." 

He  turned  to  her  again  with  his  slow,  quizzing 
smile.  "Am  I  to  take  that  as  a  compliment  or 
criticism?" 

"Did  not  you  ever  say  things  that  you  didn't 
mean?" 

"Well,  I  am  a  lawyer." 

"You  don't  care  for  women — at  all?" 

"Homeopathically,  only,"  he  admitted. 

She  shook  her  head  at  him,  half  in  mock,  half 
in  a  serious  rebuke.  "You're  not  very  gallant. 
Sometimes  you're  not  even  polite." 

"That's  only  my  crude  way  of  trying  to  cover 


228  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

my  embarrassment.  Seriously,  I  hope  you  don't 
think  I  meant  to  be  impolite  to  you." 

"But  you've  said  that  you  didn't  like  me.  That 
isn't  being  polite,  is  it?" 

Now  his  smile  was  self-deprecating.  "It  might 
be.  I've  seen  people  whose  dislike  was  the  highest 
form  of  praise." 

"Meaning — me?" 

"Meaning  no  one,  in  particular." 

She  had  plainly  tired  of  sparring  and  now  went 
at  him  with  frank  charges.  "Well,  if  you  won't 
tell  me  why  you  dislike  me,  I'll  tell  you.  You  don't 
like  me  because  you  think  I'm  silly,  vain  and  ex- 
travagant. Don't  you?" 

"On  the  advice  of  very  excellent  counsel,  I  refuse 
to  answer." 

"And  particularly  you  don't  like  me  because  I 
was  the  cause  of  separating  you  and  Dick." 

"Witness  again  balks,"  he  said,  half  smiling. 

She  was  now  half-reclining  on  the  divan  and, 
before  she  spoke  again,  she  changed  her  charming, 
graceful  posture  till  she  almost  faced  him.  She 
made  a  charming  picture  as  she  looked  up  at  him. 
Very  plainly,  too,  she  meant  to.  "But  you  do  think 
I'm  pretty,  don't  you  ?" 

"I  think  you're  beautiful,"  he  answered  prompt- 
ly. And  then:  "That  helps,  doesn't  it?" 

"A  little,"  she  admitted;  "but  I  had  to  work  so 
hard — you  might  have  given  me,  willingly,  at  least 
that  much." 

"True,  I  might,"  he  agreed. 

"But  you  didn't." 

"Oh,  that  was  my  lack  of  intuition,  I  guess." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  229 

She  made  a  gesture  as  if  abandoning  him  as 
hopeless.  "Oh,  you  are  quite  impossible^ ' 

"Yes;  I  am  still  a  bachelor." 

"Do  you  never — " 

She  was  interrupted  by  her  husband's  coming. 
"Hello,  Phil,"  he  said,  not  boisterously,  but  with 
the  tone  of  one  who  sees  someone  whom  he  much 
wants  to  see. 

"'Lo,  Dick." 

"Been  here  long?" 

"Oh,  five  or  ten  minutes." 

Richard's  face,  as  he  looked  at  him,  showed  that 
it  was  much  more  than  a  casual  call;  that  from 
Cartwright  he  expected  some  important  informa- 
tion— important  and  unusual.  There  was  a  look 
upon  his  face,  indeed,  almost  like  that  a  prisoner 
casts  at  a  jury  as  it  files  in  with  the  verdict. 
"Well?"  he  said  anxiously. 

Cartwright,  with  tight-closed  lips,  slowly  shook 
his  head. 

"Bad  as — that,  eh?"  said  Ward,  slumping  cu- 
riously into  his  clothes  almost  as  if  through  some 
sudden  process  he  had  grown  considerably  smaller. 
His  face  whitened  a  little,  and  the  hand  that 
wandered  up  to  touch  his  brow  was  not  too  steady. 

Frances,  observing  them  curiously,  as  wives  look 
at  their  husbands  when  they  are  with  male  friends 
of  whom  wifely  approval  is  not  at  all  complete,  did 
not  note  the  smaller  signs  of  his  distress,  nor  under- 
stand how  great  it  was,  but  she  saw  that  he  was 
worried,  and  in  her  heart,  blamed  Cartwright  for 
it.  With  her  curious  failure  to  go  down  beneath 
the  surface  of  events  she  felt  that  he  had  caused, 


23Q THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

not  merely  brought,  the  news  of  some  disaster,  and 
she  had  the  strangely  selfish  feeling  that  by  doing 
so  he  had  wronged  her.  She  did  not  herself, 
realize  how  wholly  she  left  Richard  out  of  all 
this  thinking.  Richard  was  distressed,  therefore 
something  had  happened  which  would  make  her 
suffer.  Cartwright  had  brought  the  news  which 
had  distressed  him;  therefore  his  was  the  responsi- 
bility. That  her  husband  was  suffering  did  not  so 
much  impress  her;  that  she  would  suffer  she  was 
certain  and  this  knowledge  worried  her,  of  course. 

Richard,  as  she  looked  fixedly,  in  agonized  dis- 
tress, at  Cartwright,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  that 
she  was  present;  Cartwright  showed  her,  by  a 
quick  glance  in  her  direction,  that  he  had  not  for- 
gotten. 

"As — bad— as  that!"  said  Richard. 

"Worse,"  said  Cartwright,  bluntly.  "Old  man, 
you're  up  against  it.  Whoever  has  been  gunning 
for  you  certainly  has  got  you.  It  would  be  silly  to 
deny  it." 

Frances,  watching  him  with  slightly  opened, 
frightened  lips,  felt  that  he  was  a  vicious  brute  be- 
cause he  did  not  lie  about  it.  Still  she  was  thinking 
only  of  herself.  It  was  inconsiderate  of  him  to 
bring  such  news  to  worry  her. 

"About  twenty  thousand  in  the  next  ten  days 
would  turn  the  trick,"  said  Cartwright,  "but  no  less. 
How  does  the  place  stand?" 

"Mortgaged  and  second-mortgaged,"  Ward 
said,  gloomily.  "At  forced  sale  it  wouldn't  bring 
ten  thousand  in  real  money." 

"Any  other  assets?"  said  the  lawyer  with  that 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  231 

kindly,  official  curiosity  which  seems  so  prying  and 
so  cruel  to  outsiders  and,  sometimes,  to  its  subjects. 
"Jewels?" 

For  a  moment  Richard  made  no  answer.  Then, 
without  looking  at  his  wife  he  shook  his  head. 
Then  he  said  slowly:  "Nothing  of  any 
account." 

"Dick,"  said  Cartwright  slowly,  not  in  the  least 
reluctantly,  however,  only  earnestly  and  thought- 
fully, "Dick,  I  could  squeeze  out  about  ten  thou- 
sand if  you  could  make  the  rest." 

Ward  did  not  look  at  him,  but  took  a  sidewise 
step  toward  him  and  felt  for  and  found  his  hand. 
"Thank  you,  old  man,"  he  said,  "but — no — it's 
bankruptcy,  I  guess." 

"Isn't  there  any  friend  or  associate — " 

The  crushed  man  shook  his  head.  "The  last 
one  has  done  his  last.  You  know  that,  as  well  as  I. 
You  can't  expect  them  to  keep  on  forever." 

His  wife,  frightened,  and  now  very  serious,  had 
listened  carefully  and  with  a  growing  sense  of 
horror  to  the  talk  of  the  two  men.  For  the  first 
time  she  began  to  realize  that  what  her  husband 
had,  from  time  to  time,  explained  to  her,  had  been 
very,  very  real,  not  a  mere  phantom  of  imagination, 
conjured  up  by  a  too  timid  prudence,  if  not  by 
plain  desire  to  hamper  her  and  keep  her  from  en- 
joying life  in  her  own,  expensive  way.  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  she  really  thought  of  helping  him, 
and,  on  the  moment's  spur,  made  the  first  sugges- 
tion that  occurred  to  her. 

"Dick,"  said  she,  "there  are  those  diamonds — 
those  diamonds  you  gave  me  last  year — on  our 


232  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

anniversary.  You  could  take  those."  She  had 
forgotten,  for  the  instant,  the  pawn-tickets  in  her 
wall-safe. 

Cartwright  sent  a  quick  glance  of  approval — al- 
most of  surprised  approval  toward  her. 

Her  husband  shook  his  head,  however.  "A 
mere  drop  in  the  bucket." 

"They  cost  five  thousand,"  she  protested.  You 
told  me  so;  and"  (suddenly  she  had  thought  about 
the  tickets  and  went  on  without  considering 
caution)  "they're  pledged  for  only  fifteen  hun- 
dred." 

Cartwright  was  first  to  sense  just  what  this  in- 
inadvertant  speech — he  was  quite  certain  of  its  inad- 
vertance — might  mean  to  his  old  friend;  of  how 
deeply  it  might  hurt  him  to  have  a  revelation  of 
this  sort  come.  That  it  was  a  revelation  was  shown 
as  plainly  by  the  expression  upon  Richard's  face  as 
that  it  had  been  an  inadvertance  was  quickly  in- 
dicated by  the  look  of  quick  regret,  almost  of 
fright,  that  grew  upon  his  wife's. 

"What!"  Ward  demanded. 

She  shrank  from  him,  almost  like  a  wilful  child, 
who,  having  often  been  in  mischief  and  escaped, 
has  at  length  gone  far  enough  so  that  it  fears  dis- 
covery will  really  bring  punishment. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you,"  she  said  quickly, 
foolishly,  making  matters  worse. 

"But  you've  been  wearing — what?  Paste  dupli- 
cates?" 

She  nodded,  still  with  eyes  that  dodged.  "I — 
had  to  have  clothes — mine  were  sights!  Positive 
sigktsl  And  I  didn't  want  to  ask  you  for  any 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  233 

more  money — you  were  so  peevish  about  it,  you 
know." 

He  was  almost  incredulous,  even  of  her  own  con- 
fession. Sub-consciously,  although  he  had  not  ad- 
mitted it  even  to  himself,  he  had  considered  her 
jewels  as  assets.  "And  the  tiara — have  you  pawned 
that,  too?" 

She  found  a  chair  and  sank  into  it  as  she  nodded 
an  admission.  "I  needed  so  many  things,  Richard 
dear.  I — was  going  to  tell  you  when  business 
should  be  better.  Then  you  wouldn't  mind,  I 
knew." 

Her  husband  flashed  one  quick  glance  at  her. 
From  Cartwright  he  kept  his  eyes  averted,  very 
carefully.  His  position,  for  a  long  while,  had  been 
that  which  to  a  husband  who  is  very  deeply  in 
love  with  his  wife  must  be  hateful — of  knowledge 
that  he  must  defend  her,  in  ten  thousand  little  ways, 
continually,  from  the  harsh  but  the  just  judgment 
of  a  friend  who  sees  her  as  she  really  is,  but  as  he, 
the  husband,  refuses  to  admit  she  is,  even  to  him- 
self. After  the  quick  look — the  one  quick  look  in 
her  direction — he  also  kept  his  eyes  away  from 
her.  For  half-a-minute,  he  walked  back  and  forth 
and  then  said  hoarsely: 

"Call  a  meeting  of  my  creditors." 

Cartwright  was  distressed  beyond  his  power  of 
words  to  tell — his  power  of  words  was  limited, 
Cartwright's,  and  this  made  some  folk  think  he  had 
small  power  to  feel.  But  really  his  heart  was  bleed- 
ing for  his  friend.  He,  too,  kept  his  eyes  averted 
from  the  woman  in  the  chair. 

"There's  no  use  of  rushing  into   failure,"  he 


234  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

urged  carefully.  "Wait  a  few  days.  You've  got 
until  the  end  of  the  month.  Think  it  over.  May- 
be something  will  turn  up.  Maybe  I — " 

"You?"  said  Ward,  with  a  quick  look  of  grati- 
tude blended  with  an  absolute  refusal.  "You'll 
do  nothing.  Do  you  suppose  I'd  take  one  cent  of 
yours,  or  of  any  other  man's?" 

"Well,  don't  be  in  a  hurry." 

Richard  shook  his  head.  "I  know  how  you  feel, 
old  man,  but  it's  no  use.  You'd  better  go  and  fix 
things  up." 

Without  another  word  his  friend  went  from  him, 
conscious  that  by  staying  he  but  added  to  his 
misery. 

After  he  had  gone,  the  woman,  conscious  that 
disaster  really  had  come,  that  the  trouble  which 
she  had  believed,  when  he  had  warned  her  of  its 
danger,  was  a  mere  figment  of  the  man's  imagina- 
tion, held  before  her  as  a  bogey  to  induce  her  to 
deny  herself  the  things  she  craved,  crouched,  terri- 
fied, upon  the  couch,  and  looked  at  him  with  anx- 
ious, apprehensive  eyes. 

The  mere  fact  that  he  did  not  look  at  her  was 
terrifying.  Generally  her  presence  exercised  a  sort 
of  magnetism  which  to  some  extent  controlled  him; 
now  he  seemed  to  be  unconscious  of  it.  If  he  had 
even  railed  at  her,  she  thought,  as  she  crouched, 
watching  him,  it  might  have  been  a  little  easier. 
She  knew  that  if  he  did  not  speak,  without  much 
more  waiting  she  would  begin  to  cry.  She  actually 
feared  him,  for  a  moment. 

But  he  did  not  do  a  fearsome  thing  when,  at 
length,  he  gave  voice  to  his  thoughts.  There  was 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  235 

no  violence  of  indignation  in  the  man.  Finding 
that  there  was  none,  she  took  heart,  not  conscious 
of  the  depth  of  the  terrific  woe  which  thrilled  him 
with  a  sense  of  utter,  black  despair. 

"I've  worked  hard,"  said  he,  at  length.  "I've 
made  enough  money  to  last  most  men  to  the  end  of 
their  day.  Where  is  it,  now?  Gone!  All  gone! 
.  .  .  And  with  it  the  best  part  of  my  life." 

He  still  refrained  from  looking  at  her,  but  he 
had  stopped  walking.  Now  he  stood,  half-turned 
away  from  her,  with  tense  hands  held  low  at  his 
sides. 

"I  used  to  clench  my  fists  and  set  my  jaw,  and 
say,  'Damn  you!  Damn  all  of  you!  I'll  have 
what  I  want !  I'll  take  what  I  want !'  "  he  went  on, 
slowly.  "But  now — try  as  I  will,  the  best  I  can  say 
is:  'What's  the  use?'  For  twenty-two  years  I've 
worked  as  hard  as  a  man  could  work — twenty-two 
years! —  the  twenty-two  years  of  a  man's  life  that 
mean  the  most  to  him — gone!  .  .  .  And  nothing 
gained  except  a  house  that  is  no  home,  a  woman 
that  is  no  wife,  and — ruin." 

It  frightened  her;  frightened  her  very  much. 
She  had  never  seen  him  in  the  least  like  this  be- 
fore. She  did  not  realize  at  all,  the  actual  part 
which  she  had  played  in  the  disaster,  she  did  not 
realize  the  magnitude  of  the  disaster,  she  was  not 
conscience-stricken  in  the  least,  but  she  was  fright- 
ened— badly  frightened. 

"Richard!"  she  said  softly. 

Over  him  swept,  now,  a  swift  revulsion.  He 
had  been  the  strong  and  uncomplaining  man  so 
long  that  it  made  him  feel  aghast  to  realize  that 


236  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

under  the  terrific  stress  of  this  terrific  moment  he 
had  really  spoken  the  plain  truth.  He  did  not  wish 
her  to  imagine  him  to  be  unjust.  He  hurried  to 
her,  raised  her  in  his  arms  and  pressed  her  close 
to  him. 

"I'm  sorry,  dear,"  he  cried.  "I  didn't  know 
what  I  was  saying.  I'm  tired,  nervous.  I — for- 
give me,  dear!  I  didn't  mean  itl" 

Now  her  fright  as  quickly  vanished  as  it  had 
appeared.  Positions,  instantly,  were  quite  re- 
versed. Now,  again,  he  was  on  the  defensive.  She 
pushed  him  from  her.  "You  did  mean  it!  You 
did!" 

"No  .  .  .  no!"  he  protested,  full  of  sharp  re- 
morse. 

"But  you  did  mean  it!"  Then,  quickly  chang- 
ing, after  she  had  found  that  her  reproaches  were 
effective,  she  clung  to  him  with  charming  earnest- 
ness, affection. 

"I  told  you  I'd  do  anything  to  help  you,  make 
any  sacrifice  for  you !  I  meant  it,  Richard !  I  mean 
it  now.  I'll  do  anything  you  say,  go  anywhere  you 
say,  live  as  you  wish.  But — it's  too  late,  now,  isn't 
it?  You  don't  love  me  any  longer — or  you — you 
couldn't  and  say  the  things  you've  said." 

"I  didn't  mean  all  I  said,"  he  cried;  "I  didn't 
mean  half  that  I  said.  It's  not  too  late  to  start 
over.  I  love  you,  Frances!  You  know  how  I 
love  you."  He  was  openly  apologizing  and  trying 
only  to  find  a  little  justification  for  himself.  "Only 
you  have  been  wrong — a  little  wrong.  You've 
spent  too  much  money.  You've  let  your  desire  for 
pretty  things  go  a  little  too  far.  You  haven't 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  237 

thought  quite  enough — you  haven't  understood 
quite  enough.  Perhaps  I  expected  too  much  of 
you!"  Now  he  was  holding  her  very  closely  to 
him. 

"I  believe  you  did,  Richard,"  she  said,  gravely 
nodding  acquiescence.  "I  honestly  believe  you 
did." 

"That's  all  the  fault  I  have  to  find  with  you, 
dear,"  he  went  on,  still  defending.  "Suppose  we 
forget  it  all — and  start  afresh.  What  do  you  say? 
We  understand  one  another  better,  now." 

His  heart  was  filling  with  a  fine  belief  that  real- 
ly they  did.  Ready,  as  he  always  had  been,  to  ac- 
cept the  burden  of  responsibility,  to  take  every 
burden,  of  whatever  kind  indeed,  from  her,  he 
seized  with  a  real  eagerness,  the  chance  to  blame 
himself.  "We'll  fight  side  by  side,"  he  cried,  en- 
thusiastically. "You  shall  know  of  my  work,  I  of 
yours;  and  we'll  help  each  other.  I  can  still  fight 
them  on  their  own  ground — if  only  I  have  got  you 
to  fight  with  me  and  for  me.  What  do  you  say, 
Frances  ?  Will  you  ?  Will  you  ?" 

He  had  achieved  a  fine  enthusiasm,  an  enthusi- 
asm which  would  have  gone  out,  then  and  there,  if 
undisturbed,  and  conquered  much.  He  looked 
down  into  her  face  with  fond,  believing  eyes.  Out 
of  all  the  evil  good  had  come,  he  told  himself. 
Their  misfortune  had  aroused  her,  and  at  last,  she 
would  support  him  in  his  battling,  not  ever  hamper 
any  more. 

"Of  course  I  will,  dear,"  she  replied.  "I'll  do 
anything  I  can  to  help  you.  You've  been  working 


238  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

too  hard,  dear.    Let's  close  up  the  house  and — take 
a  trip  abroad." 

His  hands  dropped  from  her  shoulders  to  his 
sides,  the  fine  light  which  had  kindled  in  his  eyes 
died  out.  He  turned  away  without  a  word. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

While  the  scenes  of  the  preceding  chapter  were 
in  progress  Monty  and  Clarice  were  riding  in  the 
park.  Life  had  begun  to  worry  him.  For  the  first 
time  he  had  begun  to  take  real  notice  of  the  fact 
that  married  men  must  meet  responsibilities  and 
that  these  responsibilities,  in  these  days  of  ex- 
travagance and  in  New  York,  the  city  of  extrava- 
gance, are  many  and  are  heavy,  and  that  they  prin- 
cipally consist  of  making  money.  His  clerkship  in 
his  brother's  office,  which  at  first  had  made  a 
strong  appeal  to  him  as  offering  an  opportunity  to 
learn  the  business,  made  much  less  of  appeal  when 
he  considered  it  as  a  means  of  earning  money  with 
which  to  enter  matrimony.  He  had  not  thought 
seriously  of  these  things  before;  now  he  had  begun 
to  think  of  them  most  seriously. 

"I  don't  see  how  we're  ever  going  to  get  mar- 
ried, Clare,"  he  said,  as  they  made  the  third  round 
of  the  reservoir.  "How  do  people  get  rich,  any- 
way?" 

"Why,  by  working,  don't  they?" 

"For  sixty  a  month?  And  when  you  can't  get 
even  a  decent  dinner  for  less  than  seven  dollars?" 
He  sighed.  "I  don't  know  what  to  do.  Dick  can't 
afford  to  pay  me  any  more.  I'm  not  worth  it  to 
him." 

"Then  why  don't  you  go  to  work  for  someone 
else?"  Business  seemed  to  her  to  be  a  very  simple 


240  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

matter.  Men  needed  money  for  their  wives,  so,  of 
course,  they  went  down  town  and  got  it.  That  was 
all.  If  Monty  could  not  find  as  much  as  she  would 
need  in  one  place,  why,  the  obvious  thing  for  him 
to  do  was  to  hurry  to  some  other  place. 

But  Monty  shook  his  head  at  the  suggestion. 
He  was  not  very  wise,  but  he  was  wiser  than  his 
sweetheart  in  such  matters.  "If  I  should  go  to 
work  for  a  stranger  I  should  have  to  be  there  every 
morning  at  nine  o'clock,  and  you  wouldn't  let  me 
do  that.  We'd  miss  these  morning  gallops.  Hi, 
hum !  I've  been  working  a  week,  and  I  have  eleven 
dollars  and  seventy-five  cents  less  than  when  I 
started,  although  I  drew  my  first  pay  yesterday.  .  . 
.  I  wonder  how  little  we  could  live  on,  Clare?" 

She  was  not  deeply  interested,  and  her  horse  was 
rather  frisky.  She  pulled  him  down  with  a  deter- 
mined hand  before  she  answered.  "I  don't  know, 
I'm  sure," 

Monty  turned  and  looked  at  her,  partly  to  see 
that  she  was  managing  to  keep  her  horse  in  hand 
all  right  and  partly  to  appraise  her  as  she  sat  on 
him.  "How  much  do  you  suppose  that  habit  cost  ?" 
he  asked,  after  he  had  made  quite  sure  that  she  was 
in  no  danger. 

"I  never  asked.  I  sent  the  bill  to  Aunt  Gret- 
chen." 

"Forty  dollars?" 

"Forty  dollars !  Why,  Monty,  it  cost  a  hundred 
at  least." 

"And  those  riding  boots?    Eight  or  ten?" 

"Fifteen,  I  think.     I  don't  remember." 

He  shook  his  head  and  turned  away.    "And  silk 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  241 

stockings,  and — according  to  those  statistics  you're 
wearing  about  a  year's  pay  right  now.  I  suppose 
if  we  didn't  have  to  pay  any  rent,  or  eat,  or  any- 
thing like  that,  we  might  be  able  to  get  along  upon 
my  present  princely  wage.  But,  as  it  is,  dad  blame 
it  all!  life  is  certainly — I  almost  said  itl" 

"Why,  Monty!"  said  Clarice,  a  little  shocked, 
or  at  any  rate  pretending  that  she  was. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  dear,  but  that's  what  I 
meant.  To  see  other  people  living  along  looks  like 
a  cinch  but  when  it  comes  to  your  own — " 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Well,  I'll  have  to  go 
in  now.  I've  been  getting  to  the  office  later  than  is 
absolutely  stylish,  even  in  the  Wall  Street  district. 
And  besides,  Dick  said  he  wished  to  have  a  talk 
with  me  before  I  started  down.  Something  seems 
to  be  hot  in  the  air.  I've  felt  it  ever  since  I've  been 
at  home.  It  isn't  pleasant,  either.  He  said  Aunt 
Gretchen  would  be  up  this  morning,  to  talk  some 
matters  over  with  him,  and  that  just  as  soon  as  he 
had  finished  up  with  her  he  wanted  me  to  come  and 
have  a  chat.  He  acted  as  if  the  little  confab  might 
deal  pleasantly  with  some  delightful  subject  such  as 
death  by  suffocation  or  contagious  ailments,  too. 
Dick  ought  to  take  a  rest." 

As  they  turned  out  of  the  Park  into  the  ave- 
nue and  neared  the  house  Clarice  said,  not  too  hap- 
pily, "She's  there — Aunt  Gretchen  is.  That's  her 
car  there,  before  the  door." 

"Well,  I'll  take  both  horses  to  the  stable — you 
run  in  and  greet  your  loving  relative." 

"I  shall  fly  up  stairs  and  try  not  to  be  seen," 
Clarice  confessed.  "I'm  so  afraid  of  her!  And 


242  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

she  hasn't  caught  me  in  this  habit,  yet!  Perhaps 
she  hasn't  even  had  the  bill  yet.  She'd  think  it 
awfully  extravagant." 

When  ten  minutes  later  Monty,  now  changed  to 
street  clothes — he  could  make  his  change  with  that 
lightning  quickness  of  the  youth  not  yet  enslaved 
by  a  man  servant — entered  the  big  library,  trying 
to  find  Dick,  he  found  instead,  as  he  had  been  a 
little  fearful  that  he  might,  his  sweetheart's  aunt 
waiting  with  not  too  much  patience,  for  his  brother's 
coming. 

"Good-morning,  young  man,"  she  said  promptly. 

He  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  advanced  bold- 
ly. "How  do  you  do,  Aunt  Gretchen."  He  won- 
dered what  she'd  have  to  say  about  him  and 
Clarice. 

She  wasted  not  a  minute  in  approaching  this 
most  fascinating  subject.  "So  you're  going  to 
marry  my  niece,  eh?" 

"I  hope  so." 

"And  might  I  inquire  whose  consent  you  asked?" 

"Hers." 

She  looked  keenly  at  him.  "That  strikes  you 
as  being  sufficient,  does  it?" 

"Well,  she's  taking  all  the  chances." 

She  looked  at  him  not  disapprovingly.  "You  look 
like  an  intelligent  young  man.  I  hope  you  behave 
yourself." 

"Caesar's  wife  and  I  run  a  dead  heat." 

"You  mean  by  that — ?" 

"I  try  to." 

"Very  few  young  men  do,  nowadays.  Have  you 
had  any  business  experience?" 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  243 

"I've  been  working  a  week — fifteen  dollars 
worth." 

''Working  .for  Richard,  aren't  you?" 

"Ostensibly." 

"Like  it?" 

"With  modifications." 

"Well,  what  would  you  rather  be?" 

"Rich." 

She  nodded,  not  approvingly.  "You'll  need  to 
be  if  you're  going  to  marry  Clarice." 

"I  know  it,"  he  said  discontentedly.  "That's 
the  trouble.  Nobody  can  marry,  nowadays,  unless 
he's  rich." 

"That's  what  you  think,  is  it?" 

"That's  what  everybody  thinks." 

"I  don't.  There's  more  contentment  in  a  Harlem 
flat  than  in  a  Newport  villa,  any  day."  She 
paused  and  looked  keenly  at  the  handsome,  eager, 
anxious  boy.  "I  knew  your  father.  When  he 
married  your  mother  he  owed  three  thousand  dol- 
lars and  when  I  went  to  visit  them  the  first  time, 
your  mother  and  I  slept  on  the  bed  and  he  on  the 
floor  in  the  kitchen.  That's  how  rich  he  was  when 
he  got  married." 

Monty  looked  at  her  in  frank  surprise.  "I 
didn't  know  that." 

She  peered  shrewdly  over  the  tops  of  her 
big  spectacles  at  his  retreating  back  as  he  took  a 
thoughtful  step  or  two  away  from  her. 

"There  are  a  lot  of  things  you  don't  know, 
young  man." 

As  he  came  back  she  told  him  even  more  of 
them.  "And  your  father  and  mother  knew  more 


244  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

about  happiness  than  all  the  people  on  Fifth 
Avenue  from  Thirty-fourth  street  to  the  Park. 
People,  nowadays,  are  living  on  what  my  chauffeur 
calls  the  high  speed  and  they  don't  stop,  even  to 
toot  their  horns  at  crossings." 

Monty  walked  and  thought  and  finally  he 
nodded.  He  had  seen  enough  of  Dick's  establish- 
ment to  teach  him  some  things,  although  of  course 
he  was  at  the  period  of  life  and  love  when  he  did 
not  imagine  that  the  flaws  which  would  creep  into 
others'  married  life  could  ever,  by  remotest  possi- 
bility, creep  into  Clarice's  and  his;  still,  as  a  gen- 
eralization, he  could  readily  believe  all  that  the 
shrewd  old  woman  had  been  saying. 

And  there  was  comfort  in  it,  for  it  seemed  to 
open  actual  possibilities  to  him,  for  the  first  time. 
If  he  should  wait  to  marry  Clarice  until  he  had 
achieved  the  things  his  brother  had  achieved  be- 
fore his  marriage,  then  a  long  and  dreary  period 
of  dull  delay  stretched  out  before  them.  It  sudden- 
ly occurred  to  him  that  while  Aunt  Gretchen  did 
not  seem  to  be  endorsing  his  claims  to  her  niece's 
hand  with  real  enthusiasm,  still  she  was  providing 
for  him  precedents  which  he  had  not  before  known 
of  to  use  in  argument  on  his  own  side. 

"I  believe  you're  right,"  he  said. 

"I  know  I'm  right."  She  went,  suddenly,  so 
close  to  him,  that  he  gave  back  a  step.  "Let  me 
tell  you,  young  man,  that  in  this  world  happiness 
doesn't  follow  riches — riches  follow  happiness. 
Or,  if  they  don't,  the  happiness  makes  up  the  differ- 


ence." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  245 

She  paused  and  once  more  bored  him  through 
and  through  with  her  appraising  look. 

"You  look  to  me  as  though  you  had  something 
in  you.  Take  a  day  off  sometime,  and  try  to  find 
it!" 

Without  another  word  she  left  him,  and  after  a, 


and  found  his  brother.  He  had,  for  some  time,  it 
appeared,  been  closeted  in  his  room,  with  Cart- 
wright  and  appeared  in  the  great  upper  hall  some- 
what hurriedly,  as  if  nervous  because  time  flew. 

"Hello,  old  man,  am  I  late?". he  asked. 

"I  guess  not,"  Monty  answered  almost  abstract- 
edly. Aunt  Gretchen  had  supplied  him  with  much 
food  for  thought.  "I've  been  putting  in  my  time. 
Wanted  to  see  me  about  something?" 

"Yes;  come  downstairs  to  the  library."  Once 
there  he  seemed  a  little  hesitant  about  beginning 
what  he  had  to  say,  selecting  a  cigar  elaborately, 
lighting  it  with  extra  care,  puffing  on  it  then  in 
silence  for  a  moment. 

Monty  watched  him,  possibly  observing  these 
things,  probably  unconscious  of  them.  His  mind 
was  full  of  the  necessity  for  finding  means  of  earn- 
ing money  rapidly  so  that  he  could  marry  Clarice. 

"Didn't  want  to  raise  my  salary,  or  anything  like 
that,  did  you?"  he  asked.  "Or  did  you  want  to 
jack  me  up  for  being  late  at  the  office  every  morn- 
ing but  one  of  my  first  week  on  the  job?" 

"Neither,"  said  Richard  slowly,  and  now  Monty 
noticed  that  his  face  was  very  pale  and  that  his 
hand  was  tremulous.  Beneath  his  eyes  were 
shadows  deeper  than  were  usually  there  and  he 


246  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

kept  his  lips,  when  they  were  quiet,  very  tightly 
pressed  together.  "Neither.  I've  some  bad  news 
for  you,  old  man." 

"Bad  news — for  me?"  said  Monty,  much  sur- 
prised. 

"Yes,"  said  his  brother,  evidently  speaking  with 
a  mighty  effort.  "To-morrow  I  declare  myself 
insolvent.  So,  of  course,  your  position  is  no  more." 

Monty  looked  at  him  aghast.  He  had  been  too 
busy  with  his  own  affairs  as  is  the  way  of  youth  and 
youthful  egotism,  to  realize  the  signs  of  Richard's 
really  desperate  depression,  although  he  had 
noticed  that  he  had  been  gloomy,  worried,  some- 
what downcast. 

"Bankruptcy!  Hell!"  he  cried.  "Old  man,  I 
thought  business  had  been  great.  There  have  been 
people  enough  hanging  around  the  office." 

"The  business  has  been  good,"  his  brother  an- 
swered. "But—" 

He  caught  himself  abruptly.  He  had  almost 
said  that  nothing  could  withstand  the  waste  which 
had  gone  on. 

"I  spoke  to  Daniels  about  you,  yesterday — you 
know  Daniels,  don't  you?  J.  M.  Daniels,"  he  said, 
turning  to  another  subject. 

"You  mean  the  chap  with  all  the  mines?" 

"Yes;  and  he  has  a  position  for  you,  if  you  care 
to  take  it.  It's  hard  work  and  small  pay,  and  it 
means  isolation  from  all  the  things  you've  been 
used  to.  But  it  offers  a  future — the  right  kind  of 
a  future.  It's  clerk  in  the  Sangue  d'Or  Mine  at 
a  hundred  a  month.  Will  you  take  it?  I  wish 
you  would,  old  man." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  247 

Monty  was  nonplussed.  The  situation — Dick's 
failure  and  all  that,  seemed  too  incredible  for  pos- 
sible reality.  It  seemed  to  him  absurd,  quite  unbe- 
lievable. And  this  going  out  west  to  a  mine — what 
would  that  do  to  all  his  plans? 

"Will  you  take  it?"  Richard  asked  again. 

"Why,  I  don't  know,  Dick.  I  hadn't  thought. 
Don't  you  suppose  there's  something  here  in  New 
York  city?  Clarice,  you  know — I  don't  think  she'd 
want  to  go  away  out  there  to  that  God-forsaken 
dump." 

Richard  was  in  a  stern  and  retrospective  state 
of  mind.  He  wished  to  save  his  brother,  if  he 
could,  from  those  tremendous  evils  which  had  first 
menaced  and  now  wrecked  his  own  career. 

"No  place  is  God-forsaken,"  he  exclaimed,  "ex- 
cept the  place  where  man  forsakes  his  God — and 
that's  no  more  there  than  here."  He  let  his  voice 
which  had  risen  to  unusual  pitch,  drop  now,  and 
went  closer  to  his  brother.  He  placed  his  hand 
persuasively  upon  his  shoulder.  "I  want  you  to 
take  this  position,  old  chap.  It  will  be  best  for 
you.  Believe  me,  it  will." 

"But  Clarice?" 

His  brother  whirled  and  filled  him  with  aston- 
ishment. "Ask  her  to  go  with  you.  Marry  to- 
morrow and  leave  the  day  after." 

His  voice  softened  as  he  added:  "Better  get 
away  as  soon  as  possible,  you  know,  because  it 
won't  be  exactly — pleasant  around  here  for  a 
while." 

He  stopped  now,  and  faced  Monty  squarely  with 
the  question:  "Will  you  go?" 


248  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Monty  was  exceedingly  unhappy.  The  thought 
of  thus  dashing  off  into  the  wilderness,  instead  of 
settling  down  to  such  life  in  New  York  city  as  he 
had  always  looked  forward  to  was  not  agree- 
able. It  meant  a  revolution  in  his  life,  and  if  it 
would  mean  a  revolution  in  his  life  what  would  it 
mean  in  Clare's? 

"But  Clarice,"  he  said  again.  "I  don't  believe 
she  would  go  with  me  and,  of  course,  if  she  won't 
go-" 

"You  could  come  back,  after  a  year  or  so,  and 
marry  her." 

The  young  man  smiled  sarcastically.  "And 
leave  her  here  in  the  meantime  with  Wilkes  and 
Jackson  and  Hughes  and  Van  Dorn  and  all  those 
other  Johnnies  hanging  around?  Fine  chance!" 

"You  don't  seem  to  have  much  confidence  in  your 
retentive  abilities,"  said  his  brother,  intentionally 
making  his  voice  a  little  taunting. 

Monty  shook  his  head.  "I  have,  while  I'm  on 
the  job;  but  you  know  Clarice." 

"Yes,"  said  Richard  slowly,  "I  do  know  Clarice." 
He  tried  to  make  his  voice  exceeding  gentle  as  he 
added:  'That's  why  I  want  you  to  go,  Monty." 

Wrath  blazed  in  Monty's  eyes  at  once.  Did  his 
brother  veil  a  criticism  of  Clarice  in  what  he  said? 
"Why,  what  the  devil  do  you  mean?"  he  cried,  half 
angrily. 

His  brother  went  to  him  and  put  his  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  thus,  at  short  range,  looked 
straight  into  his  eyes.  His  voice  was  very  gentle, 
almost  tender  as  he  made  an  explanation  which 
was  hateful  to  him.  "Old  man,"  he  said,  "you're 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  249 

my  brother  and  I'm  yours,  and  we  have  no  one  else. 
Clarice  is  like  Frances,  and — well — I  don't  want 
that  your  life  should  be  as  mine  has  been.  Now  do 
you  understand?" 

But  Monty  only  vaguely  comprehended  the  great 
sacrifice  the  elder  man  was  making  in  thus  opening 
the  hidden  chambers  of  his  heart  to  him.  Filled 
with  youth's  egotism  and  the  vast  conceit  of  a  first 
love,  he  saw  only  that  Clarice  had  been  attacked, 
not  that  the  man  who  had  thus  boldly  ventured 
had  in  so  doing  thrust  the  knife  hilt-deep  into  his 
own  heart-pride. 

"Now  see  here,  Dick,"  he  protested  hotly,  "I 
won't  have  even  you  say  one  word  against  the 
woman  I  love.  I — " 

"I  am  saying,"  his  brother  answered  gravely, 
"a  word  against  the  woman  /  love.  You  are  like 
me,  Monty.  Where  you  love  you  are  weak,  and, 
weak  you  will  be  made  to  give  all,  and  will  receive 
nothing — nothing  but  the  ghosts  of  things  that 
might  have  been.  You  want  a  home,  don't  you?" 

"Of  course." 

"Like  this?"  said  Richard,  and  waved  his  hand 
about,  to  indicate  the  spacious,  ornate  rooms 
which  had  been  such  a  burden  that  his  back  had 
bent  beneath  it. 

Monty  shook  his  head.  "I  had  thought  of  a 
little  place — smaller  than  this,  you  know,  and 
cosier,  and  full  of  window-seats  and  easy-chairs 
and  nooks;  a  place  with  an  open  fire — a  place  just 
for  us  two." 

His  brother  nodded  and  on  his  face  there  was  a 
flicker  of  a  smile  in  which  almost  Monty  could  see 


250  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

pity.  "I  had  thought  of  the  same  kind  of  a  place, 
old  man.  Have  you  asked  Clarice  the  sort  of  a 
place  she  would  like?" 

"Why— no." 

"Nor  did  I  ask  Frances  I  ....  You  want 
children,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  of  course,"  said  Monty,  but  a  bit  un- 
easily. 

"Have  you  asked  Clarice  about  that?" 

"Certainly  not."  Almost  annoyed  by  the  mere 
thought  that  he  would  put  a  question  of  that  sort 
to  the  young  girl  he  loved,  he  turned  away. 

Richard,  not  rebuffed,  moved  close  to  him  again. 
"I  failed,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "to  ask  Frances." 

"But,  you  know,"  said  Monty,  "you  can't  ask  a 
girl  things  like  that !" 

"And  why  not?"  said  his  brother  coldly. 

"Why,  it's  not — it's  not  proper." 

This  roused  Richard  Ward.  In  the  impassioned 
speech  which  followed  Monty  could  discern  the 
long-pent  passion  of  a  man  whose  love  for  home 
and  what  home  stands  for,  in  the  best  sense  of 
the  word,  had  been  ignored  and  flouted  by  the  one 
who  should  have  helped  toward  realization  of  it. 
The  man  revealed,  there,  to  the  youth  the  secret 
depths  of  his  great  disappointment,  and  the  youth 
knew  that  to  listen  was  a  privilege  which  would 
have  been  denied  to  any  other  human  being  upon 
earth  but  him.  Now  spoke  brother  unto  brother 
as  a  brother  should,  without  reserve  and  helpfully, 
regardless  of  the  agony  the  revelation  took  to  his 
own  heart. 

"Not  proper?    No?"  said  Richard,  with  a  voice 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  251 

that  thrilled  with  the  fierce  protest  in  his  heart. 
"But  it's  quite  proper,  I  suppose,  to  be  denied  one 
of  the  greatest  blessings  of  God  and  to  help  deny 
Him  the  right  to  repopulate  His  earth!" 

The  words  had  been  an  outburst,  perhaps  aston- 
ishing in  its  intensity  the  speaker  quite  as  much 
as  the  listener.  What  followed  was,  for  a  while, 
spoken  in  a  gentler  tone,  but  never  did  the  speak- 
er's earnestness  fail  for  a  second  to  thrill  in  his 
words  as  Monty  never  in  his  life  before  had  heard 
a  strong  man's  feeling  make  a  voice  vibrate. 

"Monty,  when  I  married,  I  made  a  mistake.  I 
wouldn't  say  that  to  anyone  on  God's  green  earth 
but  you,  and  if  anyone  should  say  it  to  me,  I'd  call 
him  a  liar.  But  it's  true.  I  loved  her;  I  still  love 
her.  She  loved  me  more  than  she  loved  anyone 
except  herself.  But  that  is  not  enough  for  a  man 
who  loves." 

His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  floor,  his  face  had 
whitened  even  beyond  the  rather  noticeable  pallor 
which  had  been  upon  it  from  the  start  of  this  un- 
usual interview.  His  hand  trembled,  when  from 
time  to  time,  he  raised  it  to  touch  nervously  his 
forehead,  cheek  or  hair;  it  trembled  when  it  dallied 
with  his  watch-chain.  It  only  held  quite  firm  when, 
now  and  then,  he  placed  it  on  his  brother's  shoulder 
as  throughout  the  long  course  of  his  talk,  he  some- 
times thus  emphasized  a  point. 

"The  things  that  I  wanted  were  the  things  that 
you  want — and  they  were  the  things  that  I  had  a 
right,  that  you  have  a  right  to  expect.  But  I  didn't 
get  them,  and  you  won't  get  them,  for  you  are  like 
me  and  Clarice  is  like  Frances.  At  first  you  won't 


252  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

miss  the  lack  of  these  things  much.  It  will  be 
enough  that  you  love  and  are  loved.  Having  her 
you  will  be  happy,  no  matter  where  or  how.  .  .  . 
The  things  that  she  will  want  you  will  give  her,  and 
thereby  you  will  be  able  to  be  with  her  but  little, 
for  your  time  will  be  spent  in  acquiring  for  her  the 
things  she  craves  more  than  she  craves  you.  You 
will  find  that  a  hat  means  more  to  her  than  an  hour 
of  your  society,  a  gown  more  than  a  day,  and  a 
motor  more  than  a  month.  .  .  .  You  will  come 
home  to  a  house  that  is  not  a  home,  to  a  wife  that 
is  not  a  mother — and  to  loneliness.  And  instead 
of  a  pipe  and  the  firelight  and  the  companionship 
of  one,  there  will  be  a  dinner,  an  opera,  guests — 
never  rest,  never  peace.  .  .  .  And  even  after  you 
have  gone  to  bed  will  come  pleas — senseless,  illogic- 
al pleas  for  things  which  you  cannot  give  because  it 
lies  not  in  your  power  to  give  them.  And  this  when 
you  are  daily  grinding  from  your  brain  its  last 
effort,  from  your  body  its  last  endeavor.  .  .  . 

"It — begins  to  tell,  after  a  while,  and  you  begin 
to  quarrel.  That  makes  it  worse,  and  with  the 
coming  of  each  morning  you  are  glad  to  go,  even 
to  grind  aH  day  in  the  money-mill,  for  there,  at 
least,  are  no  tears,  no  pleas,  no  never-ending  pro- 
cession of  answerless  'whys'.  .  .  . 

"After  a  while  you  get  calloused — things  don't 
hurt  so  badly.  But  when  that  time  comes,  also 
comes  the  loss  of  power  to  enjoy — to  appreciate.  .  . 
you  are  on  a  tread-mill,  your  eyes  ever  upon  the 
grinding  grill  beneath  your  feet,  and  behind  you  is 
the  mountain  of  debt  that  threatens  to  overwhelm 
you. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  253 

"At  times  you  get  frightened,  and  when,  by  and 
by,  the  mountain  behind  you  shall  topple  over  on 
you  and  crush  you,  as  my  mountain  has  toppled  and 
crushed  me — you  are  rather  glad.  .  .  as  I  am  rather 
glad  .  .  .  because  even  ruin  is  better  than  the  things 
that  were." 

Monty  had  listened  spell-bound,  voiceless.  He 
no  longer  had  the  protests  of  offended  youth  to 
offer  to  the  older  man.  He  was  abashed  almost, 
because  he  knew  his  brother  had  held  out  his  naked, 
shrinking  soul  for  his  inspection  and  his  benefit. 

"That,  old  man,"  said  Richard,  after  a  long 
pause,  "is  what  my  life  has  been.  Do  you  want  it 
for  yours?" 

The  youth  kept  silent  for  a  moment,  then  tried 
to  find  a  way  out  of  the  trouble  by  suggesting  "ifs," 
as  ever  is  youth's  way. 

"But  if  you  had  started  differently  in  the  begin- 
ning," he  began,  "if  you  had  said  'no'  and  had  cut 
down  expenses  and  economized — " 

"And  how,  pray?"  his  brother  demanded,  inter- 
rupting him.  "With  what  can  you  meet  the  lack 
of  logic,  the  utter  inability  to  reason?  Commands? 
pleas?  They  bring  but  tears.  Economize  and  you 
pay  for  it  in  answerless  questions,  repinings  and 
pleadings  and  importunities  until  your  brain  is  so 
tortured  and  twisted  that  It  were  better  to  pay 
more  and  double  your  earning  capacity  than  to  pay 
less  and  halve  it.  There  is  nothing — nothing  that 
a  man  can  do — nothing !  And  then,  if  he  still  love 
her—" 

"But  how  could  a  man  love  a  woman  like  that?" 
the  boy  inquired,  almost  indignantly. 


254  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"I  don't  know."  His  brother's  hands  dropped 
to  his  sides  in  a  strange  gesture.  "Perhaps  it  is 
that  he  clings  to  the  'might-have-been,'  perhaps  it 
is  because  the  more  of  a  woman  a  woman  is,  the 
more  a  man  must  love  her  ....  I  don't  know." 

He  took  a  thoughtful  turn  about  the  room,  his 
hands  working  a  little  nervously,  his  shoulders 
stooped,  his  step  a  tired  man's. 

"I  can't  tell  you  all  about  it,  old  man — there  is 
too  much — it  is  too  complicated.  But  it  is  some- 
thing that  you  don't  want,  for  you  can  have  some- 
thing infinitely  better." 

Now  he  went  to  him  and  stood  close  by  him, 
again  looking  straight  into  his  eyes.  • 

"I  hope  I'm  wrong  in  Clarice — though  I  fear  I 
am  not.  You  said  that  she  wouldn't  go  west  with 
you.  Do  you  want  the  kind  of  woman  who 
wouldn't  go  with  you,  no  matter  where,  or  when, 
or  how?  Is  that  the  kind  of  a  wife  for  you — or  for 
any  man?" 

Monty  was  almost  overwhelmed  by  this  new 
aspect  of  the  greatest  problem  of  his  life.  "I — I 
don't  know,  Dick — I — " 

"Do  you  want  a  wife  who  won't  bear  you  chil- 
dren?" Richard  asked,  with  vehemence.  "That 
won't  try  to  help  you?  That  won't  live  for  you 
and  let  you  live  for  her?  .  .  .  You  don't,  old  man; 
you  know  you  don't!" 

The  boy  was  dazed,  unable  to  think  clearly  about 
all  these  things  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  thrust 
at  his  mind.  "I — I  hadn't  thought  about  these 
matters  in  just  that  way,"  he  stammered.  "Dick, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  255 

"Neither  had  I,"  said  Richard  Ward.  "And 
that's  why  I  wanted  to — maybe  I've  misjudged 
Clarice,  Monty.  I  want  to  give  her  every  benefit 
of  every  possible  doubt.  Why  should  not  this  be  a 
good  opportunity  to  find  out  whether  I  am  right 
or  wrong?  Decide  to  go  West,  with  Daniels,  and 
see  if  the  girl  will  go  with  you." 

The  younger  brother  had  been  tremendously  im- 
pressed. He  knew  how  unremittingly  laborious 
had  been  his  brother's  efforts  to  pile  money  upon 
money;  he  knew  that  he  had  made  great  sums;  he 
knew  that  he,  personally,  had  spent  ridiculously 
little  of  them.  He  knew  that  now,  after  all  his 
years  of  effort,  he  was  on  the  verge  of  ruin — ruin  as 
irrevocable  and  black  as  any  self-wrought  ruin  could 
be,  yet  he  knew  this  ruin  had  not  been  self-wrought. 
He  could  not  doubt  that  Dick's  dreams,  at  the 
start,  had  been  as  bright  as  were  his  own  dreams, 
now;  he  saw  that  they  had  faded,  faded,  faded  in- 
to nothing — worse,  had  faded  into  nothing  and 
then  been  replaced  by  realizations  which  were  night- 
mares. 

The  love  he  bore  the  girl  he  wished  to  marry 
would  not  let  him  think,  for  a  short  instant,  that 
his  life  with  her  would  be  as  Richard's  had  been — 
yet — yet,  she  was  Frances'  sister  and  he  knew  she 
was  extravagant.  Many  things  Aunt  Gretchen  had 
said,  warningly,  rushed  to  his  mind. 

"See  if  she  will  go  with  you,"  Richard  urged. 

"By  Jove,  I  will,  Dick!"  He  hurried  from  the 
room. 

He  found  Clarice  in  the  broad  seat  of  the  group- 
window  in  the  upper  hall. 


256  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Clarice!"  he  cried,  as  he  discovered  her. 
"Clarice!" 

The  girl  dropped  the  fashion  paper  she  was 
turning  over  idly,  rose  and  went  to  him.  "What 
is  it,  Monty?  For  Heaven's  sake,  what  is  it?" 
she  exclaimed.  His  manner  almost  frightened 
her. 

"Clarice,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "I'm'going  West— 
to  work  in  a  mine.  The  business  has  failed  and 
I've  lost  my  job,  you  know,  and  Daniels  wants  me 
to  go  out  with  him  to  some  place  in  Colorado,  or 
Alaska,  or  somewhere — and  it's  a  lonely  place — a 
hundred  a  month  to  start  with,  but  we  could  live  on 
that,  out  there,  all  right;  and  I've  got  to  go  to- 
morrow and  I  told  Dick  that  you  wouldn't  go.  But 
will  you?  Will  you,  Clarice?  Will  you  marry  me 
and  go  out  there  with  me?" 

The  girl  looked  at  him  with  small  understanding 
of  what  he  had  explained  to  her.  The  youth  had 
not  been  incoherent,  but  considering  the  fact  that 
this  was  absolutely  new  to  her — a  thunderbolt  from 
a  clear  sky — he  had  not  really  been  lucid. 

"Monty,  are  you  crazy?"  she  inquired,  not  in- 
excusably. 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  boy  cautiously. 

"Or  is  this  some  kind  of  a  joke?    You  can't  be 


serious." 


"Serious?"  he  answered.  "Well,  I  should  say 
I  am!  There's  nothing  for  me  around  here,  and 
there  ought  to  be  a  great  chance  out  there.  And  I 
told  Dick  I  was  afraid  to  go  away  and  leave  you 
here  with  Hughes,  and  Jackson,  and  Wilkes  and 
that  bunch,  all  laying  to  double-cross  me  and  get 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  257 

you  away  from  me.  And  I  said  I  thought  you 
wouldn't  be  willing  to  go,  and  Dick  said  that  a 
woman  who  wouldn't  stick  to  the  man  she  loved,  no 
matter  if  he  set  out  for  Montana  or  the  South  Pole, 
wasn't  the  kind  of  a  wife  any  man  ought  to  have, 
and — I  agreed  with  him." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  her  with  some  slight 
apprehension.  "That  is,"  he  corrected,  "maybe  I 
agreed  with  him." 

He  paused  again  and  looked  at  her  with  anxious 
eyes. 

"Oh,  doggone  it,  Clarice !"  he  said  explosively,  at 
length,  "will  you  marry  me  to-morrow  and  go  out 
West  with  me?  Will  you,  Clarice?" 

Her  face  now,  was  quite  as  serious  as  his.  What 
Dick  had  said  to  Monty  about  his  married  life  and 
wife  had,  in  a  measure,  been  what  she  had  recently 
begun  to  think  about  them.  Clarice  was  a  clever 
girl  and  had  begun  to  wonder  if,  after  all,  her  sister 
had  selected  just  the  road  which  led  to  her  own 
happiness  or  that  of  those  surrounding  her.  She 
had  been  thinking  of  this  very  matter  as  she  idly 
turned  the  pages  of  the  fashion  magazine  and,  now, 
she  answered  with  a  suddenness  which  startled  her 
almost  as  much  as  it  delighted  Monty. 

"Yes,"  said  she,  "I  will!" 

"Oh,  Clarice !"  The  boy  was  wild  with  his  de- 
light, almost  unbelieving. 

Without  another  word  he  caught  her  in  his  arms 
and,  when  she  would  have  spoken,  smothered  every- 
thing she  would  have  said,  with  kisses.  Then,  with 
her  quite  breathless  in  his  wake,  towed  by  his  strong 
right  arm,  he  hurried  back  to  Richard. 


258  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"She's  going,  Dick!"  he  cried.  "She  didn't  even 
argue.  When  I  asked  her  she  just  said:  'Yes,  I 
will'  like  that.  Oh,  Dick,  she's  going!" 

"Have  you  thought  of  all  it  means?"  asked 
Richard  of  the  girl. 

"No,"  said  Clarice,  with  a  spirit  which  surprised 
him,  but  which  did  not  surprise  his  brother.  He 
had  seen  her  face  when  she  had  told  him  she  would 
go.  "And  I  don't  care  what  all  it  means,  I  said 
I'd  go  and  I  will." 

"You  won't  like  it,"  Richard  said,  dissuadingly. 
"It  will  be  a  cluster  of  huts  on  a  sun-baked  slope; 
a  crowd  of  Italians,  Sicilians,  Corsicans,  Slavs, 
Hungarians,  half-breeds,  negroes,  Mexicans.  The 
Superintendant's  wife  may  take  a  bath  once  a 
month,  but  that  will  be  her  only  claim  to  social 
standing.  If  you  go  it  will  be  to  isolation,  to  no 
companionship  but  that  of  your  husband.  There'll 
be  no  shops,  no  chance  to  wear  or  see  fine  gowns. 
You'll  have  food  that's  barely  fit  to  eat,  the  days 
will  be  long  and  alkali-ridden,  and  lonely — the 
nights  as  silent  as  a  tomb  and  as  dead." 

Monty  had  been  watching  her  with  an  intens- 
ness  almost  painful  as  his  brother  catalogued  the 
horrors  he  was  asking  her  to  fly  to  as  his  bride,  but, 
to  his  delight,  he  saw  no  sign  of  weakening  upon 
her  face. 

"But  we  won't  have  to  stay  there  forever,  will 
we?"  was  her  comment. 

"No,"  said  Richard,  "not  if  Monty  makes 
good." 

The  girl  turned  to  Monty  with  her  hands  out- 
stretched. "Then I'll  go." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  259 

"Fine !"  said  Richard  with  appreciation,  very 
evidently  with  surprise. 

"You  know,"  said  Clarice,  with  a  quick  glance 
at  him,  "I  think  it  did  me  good  in  just  the  way  Aunt 
Gretchen  thought  it  would  do  harm,  for  me  to 
come  up  here  to  live." 

Then  flushing  deeply,  she  caught  herself  up  short. 
She  would  not  be  disloyal  to  her  sister. 

"And,"  she  went  on  hastily,  "I  was  reading  a 
novel  the  other  day,  too,  that  set  me  thinking.  It 
does  seem  an  awful  waste  of  time,  here  in  New 
York,  for  most  of  us — a  waste  of  time,  a  waste  of 
energy,  a  waste  of  everything." 

Richard  looked  at  her  in  frank  amazement, 
Monty  looked  at  her  with  an  astonished  pride. 

"What  are  we  all  doing  here?"  she  asked.  "And 
why  are  we  all  doing  it?  Out  of  all  the  married 
people  I  know,  except  some  tiresome  old  friends  of 
auntie's  there  isn't  a  couple  that's  really  congenial 
— that  are  married,  as  /  want  to  be  married.  And 
I  tried  to  reason  out  why  it  was,  and  the  only  con- 
clusion that  I  could  come  to  was  that  it  was  the 
fault  of  conditions  and  environment.  Either  the 
men  work  hard  and  the  wives  spend  all  they  get, 
or  the  men  don't  work  at  all  and  spend  all  their 
wives  get.  And  there  are  too  many  things — 
theatres,  dinners,  operas,  guests,  to  take  husbands 
and  wives  apart.  They  never  really  begin  to  get 
acquainted  till  they're  so  old  they  aren't  able  to. 
So  I  made  up  my  mind  that  that  was  not  the  right 
way  to  live.  I  was  going  to  speak  to  Monty  about 
it — and  ask  him  if  he  didn't  think  so,  too.  Aunt 
Gretchen  always  has  been  trying  to  show  me  how 


26o  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

extravagant  and  foolish  I  was.  She  did  not  im- 
press me  much,  I  am  ashamed  to  say.  I  had  to 
see — some  other  things.  I  had  to  see  some  of  the 
women  who  have  spent  their  lives  in  nothing  else — 
have  occupied  them  in  extravagance  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  all  other  things — some  of  the  women 
who  come  here,  sometimes — to  realize  what  I 
might  come  to  if  I  kept  on  as  I  was." 

"Clarice!"  cried  Monty,  in  a  rapture,  while 
Richard  still  looked  at  her  in  dumb  surprise. 

"So  it  seems  to  me  that  while  the  first  year  or 
two  out  there  with  Monty  may  be  hard,  the  things 
which  we  will  gain  in  the  end  will  be  worth  the 
sacrifice.  And  I  guess  we  can  make  it,  can't  we, 
Monty?" 

"Sacrifice!"  cried  Monty.  "With  you  there? 
Why  it's  going  to  make  the  sacrifice  into  a  celebra- 
tion!" 

On  Richard's  face  was  growing  a  slow  smile, 
first  of  surprise  and  then  of  satisfaction. 

"And  we're  to  leave  at  once?"  she  asked.  "Well, 
what  time  does  the  first  train  go?" 

"I — what  time  does  it  go,  Dick?"  Monty  asked. 

"Three-thirty,"  Richard  answered,  looking  first 
at  one  then  at  the  other  of  the  youthful  couple 
with  a  better  expression  on  his  face  than  had  been 
there  before  that  day,  or,  probably,  for  many  days. 
The  girl  surprised  him,  pleased  him.  He  had  been 
fearful  for  her — fearful  of  his  wife's  bad  influence 
on  her,  but  now  it  seemed  that  the  example  had 
been  really  a  warning  not  a  temptation  to  do 
likewise.  "It's  the  Twentieth  Century  Limited,  you 
know." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  261 

"They  charge  ten  dollars  extra  on  that  train, 
don't  they?"  Clarice  quickly  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Well,  we  won't  take  it,"  she  said  firmly.  "We've 
got  to  economize.  There  must  be  a  cheaper  train 
that  will  get  us  through  soon  enough.  Then, 
Monty,  we  can  have  a  noon  wedding." 

Monty  was  filled  with  joy  as  he  had  never 
been  in  all  his  life  before.  The  prospect  of  the 
exile  did  not  seem  at  all  appalling,  now,  but  stimu- 
lating. He  would  have  to  make  a  fight  out  there, 
and  he  liked  fighting.  When  he  had  thought  about 
the  battle  which  his  married  life  would  bring  him, 
he  had  thought  about  it  as  a  battle  such  as  Richard 
had  been  fighting — a  battle  for  the  woman  whom 
he  loved.  But  now  it  seemed  that  it  would  be  a 
finer,  more  exhilarating  fight,  for  not  only  would 
the  battle  be  for  her,  but  she  would  stand  close  by 
his  side  and  help  him  fight.  Ah,  she  had  risen  to 
the  situation,  Clarice  had,  as  even  he  had  not  sus- 
pected that  she  would!  Dick  had  named  a  dozen 
ways  in  which  the  wife  might  fail  to  the  destruction 
of  the  husband,  but — ah,  Clarice  would  never  fail ! 
She  had  shown,  already,  that  in  every  way  she 
would  be  the  ideal  help-meet. 

Then,  suddenly,  there  flashed  across  the  mind 
of  the  delighted  youth  the  other  question  which 
question  which  he  had  maintained  one  could  not 
ask  a  girl.  For  a  moment,  thought  of  it  dismayed 
him,  but  things  had  gone  so  well,  so  far,  that  he 
determined  then  and  there  to  show  his  brother, 
who  had  made  such  dire  predictions,  that  in  no 
respect  whatever  would  Clarice  fail.  Boldly  he 


262  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

looked  Richard  in  the  eye,  then  turned  his  glance  to 
Clarice.  Frances  had  failed  Richard,  for  she  had 
not  given  him  a  child.  But  Clarice — 

"And  Clare,  dear — ",  he  said  boldly. 

"Yes,  Monty." 

But  now  that  he  approached  the  matter  at  close 
quarters  it  seemed  a  bit  more  difficult.  "Do  you 
want,"  he  started,  and  then  stopped.  It  was  a  bad 
beginning.  "Shall  we — "  he  tried  again,  and  again 
came  to  a  full  stop.  Then,  bracing  himself  firmly 
for  the  task,  he  made  another  effort.  "Don't  you 
think,"  said  he,  "that — well,  we  ought  to  have — " 

The  sentence  ended,  thus,  unfinished. 

"Oh,  doggone  it,  Dick,"  he  cried,  "I  can't  ask 
her  a  thing  like  that!" 

But  Clarice,  by  some  trick  of  woman's  intuition, 
understanding,  looked  up  quickly  at  him,  nodded, 
blushed  furiously,  threw  a  quick  glance  at  Richard 
and  then:  "Yes;  yes;  I  do,"  she  murmured  and 
hid  her  head  on  Monty's  shoulder. 

"Clarice,"  said  Richard,  going  to  them  where 
.they  stood,  tight  in  each  other's  arms,  "I  owe  you 
'  an  apology." 

She  spared  him  one  hand  somewhat  grudgingly 
as  if,  at  such  a  moment,  both  were  really  needed 
about  Monty's  neck. 

"I  misjudged  you,  and  I'm  very  sorry  to  say  that 
I  said  hard  things  about  you.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
sorry — " 

"You  said  that  I  was  vain  and  silly^and  extrava- 
gant and  useless,  generally?"  asked  Clarice,  look- 
ing at  him,  half  with  smiles  and  half  with  happy 
tears  across  her  chosen  master's  shoulder.  "Well, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  263 

so  I  was — until — until  I  came  here — and  saw  Fran- 
ces— oh,  I  don't  mean  that,  but  until  some  things 
made  me  begin  to  think.  But  I'm  not  those  things, 
any  more,  because  I  understand  life  better,  now. 
Oh,  you'll  see  how  different  I'll  be  from  now  on — 
no,  you  won't  see,  but  we'll  write  you  about  it." 

She  changed  her  clinging  clasp  of  Monty's  neck 
to  a  fierce  hug,  kissed  him  twice  and  pushed  him 
well  away  from  her.  "Come,  Monty,"  she  said 
briskly,  "we've  got  so  many  things  to  do !" 

"God  bless  them  both,"  said  Richard  Ward,  as 
he  looked  after  them  with  smiling  eyes,  "and  keep 
them  far  from  here  where  everything  is  waste — 
utter,  utter  waste." 


CHAPTER  XV 

The  hubbub  of  the  day  was  dying  out  in  the  thin 
canon,  downtown,  where,  in  the  intense  hours  of  its 
working,  the  moneymill  grinds  frantically.  To 
Ward's  opened  window  came  occasional  noises,  not 
the  steady  roar  which  had  maintained  until  a  half- 
hour  since,  but  separate  sounds,  emphasized  be- 
cause of  their  mere  individuality.  Wall  Street's 
frantic  energy  ceases  each  working-day,  as  sudden- 
ly as  it  begins,  and  it  begins  with  the  abruptness, 
almost  of  a  mad  mob's  rush  upon  a  breastworks. 

The  man's  face,  as  he  sat  there,  was  pale  and 
tired-looking — even  more  tired-looking  than  had 
been  habitual  with  it,  of  late.  His  hand,  utterly 
relaxed  for  the  first  time  in  months,  even  the  first 
time  in  years  perhaps,  as  it  toyed  with  a  great  sheet 
of  paper  covered  closely  with  figures,  red-lined  and 
professional-looking,  was  less  tremulous  than  it 
had  been  before  the  fearful  strain  had  reached  its 
climax,  passed  the  strength  of  his  endurance,  ex- 
ceeded his  ability  to  achieve.  His  eyes,  as  they 
roved  here  and  there  about  the  room,  passed  slow- 
ly from  one  object  to  another,  not  with  the  alert 
and  almost  frightened  glances  of  the  recent  days. 
As  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  at  physical  ease,  his 
feet  hung  quiet.  For  months,  when  he  had  been 
seated  in  that  chair,  one  or  the  other  of  them  had 
been  jumping  nervously  upon  its  toe,  its  heel  beat- 
ing a  quick  tattoo  upon  the  air  to  call  up  nervous 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  265 

force.  Save  for  himself  and  a  scrub-woman  all 
the  offices  were  quite  deserted. 

He  looked  about  the  place  with  curious  eyes, 
almost  as  a  stranger  might.  He  seemed  to  see 
each  desk,  each  chair,  each  rug,  each  ornate  glass- 
partition,  mahogany  counter,  with  a  new  sharp- 
ness of  detail  as  if  they  were  strange  things  to  him. 
Now  that  the  time  had  come  for  him  to  let  the 
awful  tension  of  his  brain  and  nerves  relax,  because 
it  had  proved  futile  to  preserve  him,  it  was  hard 
for  him  to  realize  that  all  the  recent  days  had  not 
been  episodes  in  a  bad  dream.  Why  had  he  not 
spared  himself  their  agony  by  giving  up  before? 
Long  ago  he  had  felt  sure  that  a  surrender  was  in- 
evitable. No  man  could  have  won  against  the  odds 
which  had  opposed  him.  He  was  not  even  bitter 
in  his  thoughts  of  the  lost  battle.  He  had  been 
handicapped  beyond  his  strength,  beyond  the 
strength  of  any  man. 

"Utter,  utter,  utter  waste!"  he  said  aloud,  re- 
membering his  talk  with  Monty  just  before  the  boy 
had  started  westward,  with  his  sternly  set  young 
face  and  his  aroused,  devoted  bride,  now  every  bit 
as  earnestly  determined  as  the  boy  was.  to  make 
their  battle  with  the  world  a  winning  fight,  to  help, 
not  hinder,  him  as  he  contested  it.  "Waste, 
waste !" 

Cartwright  had  entered,  unannounced,  because 
no  employee  remained  now  in  the  place.  The  of- 
fices of  Richard  Ward  had  suddenly  become  like 
the  bare  decks  of  a  sinking  ship.  The  word  that 
trouble  of  the  worst  kind  threatened  had  scared 
many,  his  own  quiet  words  had  sent  the  rest  to  find 


266  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

their  hats  and  coats  and  scurry  for  new  jobs.  So 
no  one  barred  the  lawyer's  way,  as  all  persons  had 
in  the  past  been  barred,  when  they  attempted  to 
approach  the  master  of  the  place  without  an- 
nouncement. 

"What's  waste?"  he  asked. 

Ward  had  not  heard  him  enter,  but  he  was  not 
startled.  His  nerves  were  stunned  beyond  the  pos- 
sibility of  little  shocks  just  then. 

"Everything,"  said  he,  as  he  looked  up.  "Time, 
energy,  effort,  life.  It's  all  waste.  What  do  I  and 
such  as  I  accomplish?  Nothing.  Do  we  make  the 
world  a  better  place  to  live  in?  Do  we  improve 
ourselves  even?  Do  we  make  happier  those  about 
us?  Is  there  any  good  we  do — any  good  at  all? 
God  puts  us  here  for  something,  doesn't  He?  Then 
it  must  be  to  construct — to  upbuild — to  create, 
yet — what  have  I  upbuilt?  What  have  I  created? 
Nothing.  Absolutely  nothing.  Serving  no  pur- 
pose, striving  for  no  end,  I  creep  uselessly,  vainly, 
onward  toward  oblivion.  It's  waste — utter,  utter, 
utter  waste." 

Cartwright  took  a  vacant  swivel  chair  and  sat  in 
it,  leaned  back,  as  Ward  did,  his  feet  swinging. 
For  a  time  he  did  not  speak  at  all.  Then  he  nod- 
ded slowly. 

"It's  a  queer  game,  old  man,"  said  he.  "Some- 
times it  seems  as  though  the  fates  started  us  out  for 
a  purpose  and  then  forgot.  It's  a  queer  game — a 
mighty  queer  game.  I  was  down  in  Washington 
Square  yesterday,  and  dropped  into  our  old  bar- 
racks, just  for  fun."  • 

Ward  turned  to  him,  indefinitely  interested. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  267 

"Same  two  old  rooms,"  Cartwright  went  on, 
"same  old  carpet  with  the  holes,  same  old  bath- 
room with  exposed  plumbing,  same  old  landlady 
— just  as  whole-souled  and  nosey  as  ever.  It  did 
me  good  to  find  there  something  that  five  years  in 
New  York  can't  change." 

"Five  years!"  said  Richard.  "That's  a  long 
time." 

"A  damned  long  time,  in  New  York  city,"  Cart- 
wright agreed.  "They  waste  us  fast  here." 

"Fast,  fast,"  said  Ward. 

"Remember  Gibbs?  What  a  bully  fellow  he 
was,  and  how  he  dropped  out  of  sight?  And  Dun- 
can? And  Bates?  And  God  knows  how  many 
more?" 

Ward  nodded. 

"It'll  be  that  way  with  us,  Dick.  They  drop  us 
into  the  lake.  We  make  a  splash,  and  not  such  a 
hell  of  a  splash,  at  that,  and — that's  all.  Wish  I 
were  married  and  had  a  family — somebody  to 
care!" 

Ward's  eyes  involuntarily  shot  toward  him,  Cart- 
wright caught  the  glance  and  quickly  shifted  his 
own.  Then  he  went  on  somewhat  hurriedly: 

"Good  God!  I'm  talking  like  an  old  woman! 
What  did  you  want  to  see  me  about  before  I  went 
uptown?  Anything  in  particular?" 

"I  wanted  to  know  principally  if  you  had  any- 
thing to  tell  me." 

Cartwright  sighed.  "Nothing  new.  Every- 
thing's all  fixed.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  sit  tight 
and  I'll  attend  to  the  rest."  He  was  plainly  try- 
ing to  act  as  if  he  were  not  the  witness  of  a  tragedy, 


268  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

but  he  was  not  enough  the  fool  to  try  to  make  light 
of  the  situation. 

Ward  stirred  uneasily,  but  did  not  look  at  him. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  asked  Cartwright,  as 
one  might  ask  a  patient  about  to  undergo  an  opera- 
tion. 

Ward  waited  for  a  slow,  deep  inhalation  before 
he  answered.  Finally:  "Relieved." 

"Good,"  said  Cartwright,  looking  at  him  with 
real  fondness  in  his  eyes.  "That's  right,  old  man." 
Then,  after  another  pause,  as  if  he  wished  to  em- 
phasize the  fact  that  what  he  said  was  mere  sugges- 
tion, not  advice:  "You  know  it  might  be  arranged 
so  that  you  could  get  an  extension  of  time  and 
credit,  whereby  you  might  keep  on — " 

Ward  interrupted  him.  "I  don't  want  that,  Phil ; 
I'm  tired.  I  don't  want  the  responsibility.  I'll— 
work  for  someone  else,  for  awhile,  at  any  rate." 

Cartwright  plainly  heartily  approved  this  deci- 
sion. "Well,  you  won't  have  any  trouble  getting 
an  opportunity  to  do  that.  Only  there'll  be  less 
money  in  it,  probably — at  any  rate,  at  first." 

"I  know.  I  want  less  money,"  said  Richard, 
with  decision.  "I  want  a  fixed  income  and  no  capac- 
ity to  get  into  debt." 

"The  fixed  income  will  be  easy  enough,  but  the 
other—" 

"I'll  have  to  regulate,  myself?" 

Cartwright  nodded. 

"I'm  going  to  try — " 

He  did  not  complete  his  sentence,  but  his  friend 
knew  what  he  would  have  said  if  he  had  done  so. 

They  sat  in  silence,  for  a  time,  now.    Then  Cart- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  269 

wright  slowly  rose,  as  if  reluctant  to  depart  and 
leave  Ward  there  alone. 

"Well,  I  promised  Richards  to  meet  him  at  the 
club  at  six.  You  going  uptown?" 

"No;  not  yet,  old  man.  I'm  going  to  sit  here 
for  a  while  and  think — and  try  to  think  things  out." 

"Then  if  there's  nothing  else,  old  man,  I'll — " 

"There's  nothing  else,  Phil." 

Both  men  rose  and  Cartwright  reached  his  big 
hand  out  in  a  strong  clasp.  "You  know  all  I  think, 
Dick — all  I  feel,"  he  said  in  a  slow  voice,  vibrant 
with  deep  sympathy.  "And  there's  no  limit,  old 
man — no  limit." 

"I  know;  thank  you,  Phil — good-night." 

"Good-night,  Dick." 

For  hours  the  man  sat  there  considering  life, 
and  the  successes  and  the  failures  which  compose  it. 
Until  now  success  had  ever  been  his  portion;  now 
the  rising  failure  loomed  with  dreadful  horror  on 
his  vision.  What  had  wrought  this  dire  black- 
magic?  He  had  never  ceased  his  striving,  never 
dallied  with  dishonor,  never  taken  the  advantages 
of  his  associates  which  many  men  in  the  financial 
district  think  fair  things  to  do  in  the  Great  Game. 
Always  he  had  worked  to  the  top  limit  of  his 
strength,  always  he  had  worked  with  a  keen  eye  for 
others'  rights  as  well  as  for  his  own  advancement. 
Always  he  had  won,  won,  won.  Why  then,  had 
the  end  come  to  his  effort — an  end  shrouded  in  the 
black  abyss  of  failure?  He  had  not  failed,  really. 
He  had  made  great  sums  of  money  and  had  made 
them  rapidly;  but  now  he  was  unable  to  meet  his 


270  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

honest  obligations — after  all  this  striving,  after  all 
this  mighty  effort.  Why? 

To  be  sure  there  had  been,  lately,  that  malign 
influence  at  work  against  him  in  the  Street,  mysteri- 
ous, uncanny,  striking  always  when  and  where  he 
was  most  vulnerable,  the  same  influence  which  had 
induced  the  Century  Trust  to  call  his  loan.  The 
secret  foe  had  hastened  the  black  climax,  but  he 
could  not,  then,  stir  up  a  violent  resentment  toward 
him,  whoever  he  might  be.  Had  things  gone  dif- 
ferently uptown  he  would  have  had  the  strength 
and  weapons  for  the  downtown  fight.  He  realized, 
as  he  looked  back  along  the  years,  that  ever  since 
before  his  marriage  there  had  been  this  foe  at  work, 
antagonizing  secretly,  striking  from  behind  one 
cover  or  another,  but  until  now,  his  efforts  had  been 
fruitless  because  he,  Richard  Ward,  had  thrilled 
with  fierce  vitality,  had  never  lacked  resource,  had 
not  relaxed  his  watchfulness.  But  now — the  foe 
had  caught  him,  devitalized,  resourceless,  blinded. 
The  "Why?"  found  no  real  answer,  therefore,  in 
the  scheming  of  the  enemy,  but  in  the  fact  that  he, 
himself,  had  been,  by  other  matters,  weakened. 

There  could  be  but  one  real  answer  to  the 
"Why?"  which  rose  so  constantly  within  his 
thoughts — the  tragic  word  which  had  been  on  his 
lips  as  Cartwright  had  come  in:  Waste — waste, 
not  in  his  offices  or  in  any  of  his  own  affairs,  but 
in  the  home  for  which  his  mighty  effort  had  been 
wholly  made.  It  had  been  the  woman  he  had 
loved — the  woman  he  still  loved — who  had,  real- 
ly- 

He  roused  suddenly,  to  realization  of  the  length 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  271 

of  time  which  must  have  passed  since  Cartwright 
had  left  him.  It  was  dark  now,  to  his  surprise,  and 
he  had  to  grope  to  find  the  button  of  the  electric 
light  which  hung  above  his  desk.  He  turned  it, 
blinked  as  the  yellow  radiance  flooded  round  him, 
took  his  coat  and  hat  from  the  near  chair  where  he 
had  thrown  them  when,  more  hours  ago  than  he 
could  readily  believe,  he  had  come  in,  with  the 
knowledge  of  his  ruin  definitely  in  his  mind,  put 
them  on,  and  not  thinking  of  the  light  again,  but 
leaving  it  there,  radiant,  as  one  light  is  left  upon  a 
sinking  ship,  went  out. 

He  walked  the  long  miles  to  his  home — the  home 
which  had  been  not  a  refuge  to  him  but  a  burden 
which  had  crushed  him  with  its  weight,  and  after 
he  had  reached  it,  entered,  so  deeply  buried  in  his 
bitter  thoughts  that  he  was  scarcely  conscious  of  the 
servant  who  relieved  him  of  his  hat  and  coat,  of  go- 
ing to  the  library,  of  sitting  there,  for  further  hours. 

The  "why"  which  puzzled  him  so  vastly,  and 
which  puzzled  Cartwright  quite  as  fully,  was  no 
secret  to  a  small  group  "on  the  Street."  In  each 
direction  he  had  turned  the  nemesis  had  crouched, 
waiting,  masked,  implacable,  adroit,  strong,  not 
through  the  possession  of  a  merely  powerful  capi- 
tal, but  through  command  of  mighty  millions. 
Now  it  had  thrust  at  him  through  the  office  of  one 
broker,  now  through  another's,  but  ever  was  the 
thrust  at  him  and  him  alone.  He  could  not  work 
with  secrecy  enough  to  circumvent  it;  he  could  not 
work  with  a  bravado  great  enough  to  make  it 
hesitate.  Ever,  ever  it  was  trailing  him  upon  each 


272  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

highway  of  finance  he  tried  to  travel;  ever  it  had 
won,  of  late  months,  in  his  skirmishes  with  it.  That 
it  was  ruthless,  utterly,  and  after  him  alone,  was 
quickly  clear  to  the  entire  financial  district,  for  even 
a  small  purchase  on  his  part  would  send  a  good 
stock  down,  a  sale  of  size,  send  weak  stock  up,  not 
only  to  his  own  distress,  but  possibly  to  the  tre- 
mendous loss  of  others,  much  more  deeply  inter- 
ested than  himself. 

Two  men  were  talking  of  it  in  a  club  as  he  sat 
pondering  that  "why?" 

"It's  been  a  man-hunt!"  cried  one  of  them,  who 
had  suffered.  "Dick  Ward's  been  like  a  pestilence. 
Go  with  him  in  a  deal  and  it's  been  sure  you'd 
get  financial  cholera." 

"He's  on  the  eater-wagon  and  there'll  be  a 
smash,"  his  friend  replied,  "if  what  you  say  is  true. 
Therefore,  let  us  have  a  drink."  He  touched  the 
bell. 

"Wise  notion,"  said  his  friend.  "It  cost  me 
fifteen  thousand  last  week,  just  to  sell,  for  half-an- 
hour,  one  line  that  he  was  selling  on  the  sly.  I  need 
a  stimulant." 

"Who's  after  him?" 

"Some  damned  cold-blooded  beast!" 

They  drank  in  unhappy  silence,  considering  this 
matter. 

Suddenly  one  of  them  whistled  softly,  as  if  un- 
expectedly a  great  discovery  had  been  thrust  upon 
him.  "Sure  I  have !"  he  whispered. 

"You  have  what?" 

"Seen  Kelly." 

"Kelly?" 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  273 

"Why,  I've  got  wise  to  the  pursuit  of  Ward. 
He's  been  a  rabbit.  It's  Suffern  Thorne.  Sure  pop. 
Some  Nemesis,  he  is.  I  see  it  all  as  clearly  as  if  I 
were  our  cute  friend  Pierpy  Morgan,  with  financial 
second-sight.  Ward  cut  Thorne  out  with  the  Van 
Zandt  girl — pretty  thing,  his  wife  is  too,  with  both 
hands  wide  open,  scattering  his  money  to  the  starv- 
ing jewelers  and  dressmakers  along  the  Avenue — 
and  Thorne  he  has  laid  low  and  kept  dead  quiet 
ever  since.  But  when  he  saw  a  chance — wow!  it 
was  his  knife  for  Dicky's  floating  ribs.  He'd  make 
a  fine  man  on  the  witness-stand — for  the  defense! 
Great  capacity  for  saying  nothing.  Don't  you  see? 
He  tied  his  mask  on  tight,  right  then ;  he  sharpened 
up  his  butcher-knife  and  hid  in  one  of  the  dark  cor- 
ners of  this  year  in  Wall  Street." 

"Plenty  of  dark  corners  in  this  year,  down  there, 
all  right." 

"Else  why  would  it  be  Thieves'  Paradise?  He 
hid  very  cleverly,  and  every  time  Ward's  passed,  of 
late,  when  he's  been  good  and  ripe  and  careless, 
because  of  his  fool  house  and  his  fool,  spendthrift 
wife^he's  stuck  it  into  him;  and  when  he  hasn't 
passed,  he's  chased  him  up  and  slashed  at  him." 

"He  must  hang  on  to  grudges  with  the  hand  that 
grips  till  death !  Ward's  been  married  years,  now." 

"It's  more  than  a  mere  grudge,  you  innocent 
small  boy — he's  going  to  ruin  him.  Ward's  wife 
is  one  of  those  dear  things  that  dealing  dollars 
out  plumb  dopes.  It's  a  passion  with  her  to  dis- 
burse. You  know  'em?" 

"By  God,  I  do !  You  know  I  was  married,  once, 
and—" 


274  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Oh,  yes;  I  now  recall  the  case.  Excuse  me. 
Reno,  wasn't  it?  Well,  his  is  worse  than  yours  was. 
She  shovels  it  out.  Now  do  you  see?  Thome's 
waited — say,  what  a  yarn  for  one  of  the  sweet 
Sunday  papers !  And  Ward  is  not  within  ten  miles 
of  next." 

"Is  Thorne  going  to  win?" 

"God  knows — probably.  When  she  went  down 
the  coast,  this  summer — that  was  when  Thorne  left 
the  street  for  near  a  month.  I  heard  about  them 
from  Ned  Reilly.  He  was  down  there,  too.  Ward 
didn't  get  there  much — too  busy  here,  producing 
cash  to  pay  the  bills;  but  Thorne  was  there  and 
drove  the  lady  in  his  motor,  sailed  her  in  his  yacht, 
flowered  her  from  his  florist's,  fed  her  from  his 
candy-shops — was  with  her  every  minute.  I  heard 
all  about  it.  Don't  you  see?  She  probably  gave 
him  some  reason  to  believe  that  if  Ward  should  go 
smash — oh  well,  you  know  the  men  like  Ward — 
when  they  go  smash  they  sometimes  use  a  gun  or 
something.  And  she  probably  made  Thorne  think 
that  if  Dick  blew  his  brains  out — " 

"Don't  say  those  words  so  lightly.  I  sometimes 
feel  like—" 

"You  couldn't.  Yours  are  far  too  small  and 
you're  not  enough  a  marksman.  It  would  take  a 
peach  to  hit  the  microscopic  target.  That's  what 
you  get  for  interrupting." 

"You  going  to  wise  Ward?" 

"Little  boy,  just  now  I  have  some  active  troubles 
of  my  ownest  own.  When  I  see  a  clever  panther 
tracking  down  a  luckless  stranger,  I  do  not,  habit- 
ually, divert  that  panther's  mind  and  urge  him  to 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  275 

track  me,  unless  I  have  a  gun.  At  present  I'm 
not  armed  for  a  quick  scrap  with  Suffern 
Thorne." 

"You're  right,  all  right.    Had  alcohol  enough?" 
"To  last  me  to  the  house,  I  guess." 

While  these  men  were  reaching  the  real  truth 
of  his  great  puzzle,  Ward  was  pondering  it,  with 
less  success,  up  at  his  house.  Hour  after  hour  he 
sat  and  studied  it.  He  had  not  even  noted  that 
his  wife  was  absent  from  the  house  when  she  came 
in,  breezy,  perfumed,  smiling,  with  a  quick  swish  of 
silken  skirts,  long  after  midnight. 

"All  alone  here,  Dick?  Poor  boy!"  she  cried, 
and  went  to  him  as  she  threw  back  her  wrap. 

He  looked  at  her  with  tired  eyes. 

"Yes;  alone,  of  course.    Where  have  you  been?" 

Before  she  answered  him  she  fluttered  to  the 
door  and  pushed  the  button  of  a  bell  to  call  her 
maid.  As  the  sleepy  Elise  entered,  took  her  hat 
and  cloak  and  went  away  again,  she  answered: 

"Out  to  dinner  with — " 

"With  whom?" 

"Sh,  the  Astons  and  Van  Pelts  and — people." 
If  she  hesitated  as  she  finished  out  the  sentence  the 
pause  was  very  slight  and  her  husband  did  not 
notice  it.  She  stripped  off  her  long  gloves  slowly, 
and  preened  herself  a  little,  as,  very  beautiful  in 
features  and  in  form  and  wonderfully  gowned,  she 
stood  before  him.  "You  haven't  told  me  whether 
I  look  well  or  not!"  she  said  in  whimsical  com- 
plaint. "You  never  say  pretty  things  to  me  now, 
as  you  used  to,  Dick !" 


276  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Don't  I?"    It  was  clear  enough  that  he  was  not 
paying  very  close  attention. 

"You    know   you    don't.      You    haven't — even 


now." 


"You  look — well — of  course.  You  always  look 
well." 

"You  don't  say  it  very  enthusiastically,"  she  com- 
plained. An  outsider,  knowing  her  well,  would 
have  seen  at  once,  that  there  was  something  quite 
unusual  in  the  flush  upon  her  face,  the  occasional 
nervous  movement  of  her  hands,  the  queer  way  in 
which,  from  time  to  time,  she  dodged  his  eyes.  He 
would  have  seen  it,  instantly,  if  he  had  been  in 
normal  form;  but  now  he  was  too  nearly  dazed  by 
all  that  had  occurred  to  him  to  make  a  careful  note 
of  anything. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her  last  complaint,  but 
rose,  with  slow  and  tired  movement  and  leaned 
upon  the  table,  looking  at  her. 

"Frances,"  he  said,  with  queer  deliberation.  "I 
want  to  have  a  serious  talk  with  you." 

She  darted  a  quick  look  at  him,  saw  that  he  no 
longer  had  his  eyes  on  her  and  seemed  a  bit  re- 
lieved. "But  we've  had  so  many,  many  serious 
talks  lately,  Dick,"  she  said.  "Can't  it  wait  till 
morning?  I'm  terribly  tired." 

"I'm  tired,  too,  Frances,"  he  replied  and  his 
whole  figure  drooped  at  the  mere  word.  She  noted 
for  the  first  time  now,  the  unwontedly  deep  lines 
which  seamed  his  face,  the  deep  sag  of  his  shoul- 
ders, the  whole  world-weary  aspect  of  the  man. 

"Poor  boy!  You  do  look  tired,"  she  admitted, 
and  went  to  him  and  pushed  him  back  into  his 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  277 

chair,  caressingly.  Then  she  found  a  seat  upon  its 
arm  and  drew  his  head  against  her  breast  and 
stroked  his  hair.  "Now  you  go  right  to  bed  and 
have  a  good  night's  sleep.  Then,  in  the  morning, 
we  can  have  the  talk — just  as  long  and  just  as  ser- 
ious as  you  like."  She  spoke  as  to  a  fretful  child. 
"Or  not  to-morrow — Monday,  Dick." 

"Monday  we  move,  Frances." 

She  sprang  up  from  her  seat  and  faced  him  with 
wide  eyes.  "Move — Monday!  "Why,  it's  out  of 
the  question — absurd!  Why — I — there's  the  din- 
ner to  the  Ravenals!  The  invitations  were  sent 
out  weeks  ago.  That's  for  Tuesday.  We  can't 
possibly  go  till  after  that!  Why,  you  yourself 
must  see  how  absurd  it  is !" 

"The  dinner  cannot  be,  Frances,"  he  said  dully. 
"Don't  you  see  how  absurd — how  even  laughable  it 
would  be  for  a  wife  to  give  a  dinner  to  twenty  or 
thirty  people  the  day  after  her  husband  has  de- 
clared himself  bankrupt?  That's  what  I  must  do. 
You'll  have  to  notify  them  that  it's  off." 

"But  Dick,  that's  silly,  dear!  You  can't  treat 
people  like  that!  What  would  they  think?" 

This  roused  him  from  the  lethargy  which,  up  to 
then,  had  bound  him  into  dulness.  "What  differ- 
ence does  it  make,  what  they  think?"  You'll  pro- 
bably never  see  them  again." 

"Never  see  them  again !" 

"From  now  on,"  he  answered,  "we  must  find 
our  friends  among  those  whose  incomes  are  the 
same  size  as  mine — which  will  probably  be  about 
ten  thousand  a  year.  You  don't  seem  to  have  real- 
ized what  a  radical  change  it  will  be,  Frances." 


278  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"But,  Dick,  why  must  it  be  such  a  change  as 
that?"  she  pleaded.  "Couldn't  we  stay  on  here, 
and  economize?  Cut  down  here  and  there,  on  the 
little  things,  you  know?"  She  took  a  step  or  two 
away  from  him  and  stood  looking  at  him  with  re- 
proach. "You're  asking  a  great  deal  of  me — to 
give  up  my  home — my  friends — everything,  almost. 
Don't  you  think  so?" 

He  turned  to  her,  not  angrily,  but  very  seriously. 
"I  am  asking  only  that  you  give  back  a  little  of  the 
much  that  I  have  given  you." 

"You  don't  look  at  those  things  logically,  Dick, 
you  never  did,"  said  she.  "Your  business — your 
standing — demand  that  you  have  a  suitable  home 
and  that  your  wife  shouldn't  go  around  in  rags. 
It  costs  a  lot,  perhaps;  but  everybody  knows,  in 
these  days,  you  have  to  spend  money  to  make  mon- 
ey. And  you  jump  into  things  so,  Dick.  You 
never  stop  to  think.  You  should  take  things  calm- 
ly, easily.  Why — " 

She  paused  a  second  and  looked  at  him  with 
bowed  head,  and  eyes  upturned  a  little  furtively. 

"Why,  something  might  happen  so  that  we 
wouldn't  have  to  move,  or  you  even — even  give 
up  your  business." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Not  now.  It's  already 
decided.  It's  already  virtually  done."  He  paused 
and  for  a  moment,  walked  back  and  forth  before 
her,  but  he  did  not  look  at  her  until  just  as  he  be- 
gan to  speak  again.  "And  there  will  be  radical 
changes  in  other  things,"  he  said,  at  length. 
Frances,  you  must  have  no  more  accounts  at  the 
shops." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  279 

"No  accounts  at  the  shops!"  she  cried,  incredu- 
lously. 

"None;  no  account  at  any  shop,  Frances.  This 
I  must  insist  on." 

She  had  sunk  into  a  chair  to  gaze  at  him,  aghast, 
as  he  had  said  that  his  assignment  was,  virtually, 
an  accomplished  fact;  she  rose  now,  with  a  gesture 
of  annoyance.  "Really,  Dick,"  she  cried,  "you're 
perfectly  absurd  to-night!" 

He  waved  his  hand  in  sheer  helplessness  against 
her  failure  to  attempt  to  comprehend.  "I'm  sorry 
you  think  so,"  he  said,  wearily,  "but  I  must  insist, 
nevertheless.  Whenever  you  need  or  want  any 
money,  you  must  come  to  me.  If  I  shall  have  it,  I 
will  give  it  to  you — and  you  can  spend  it,  as  far  as 
it  will  go."  His  positiveness  frightened  her.  "But 
there  must  be  no  more  debts — no  more  debts  of 
any  kind.  And  for  a  time  there'll  be  no  money  to 
spend  for  anything  beyond  the  bare  necessities  of 
food  and  lodging.  Remember,  I  must  now  go  out 
to  hunt  for  a  position." 

She  looked  at  him  incredulously.  "You're  go- 
ing to  hunt  for  a  position — to  work  for  someone 
else?1' 

"Yes." 

"To  be  a  salaried  employee?"  The  incredulity 
became  almost  a  sneer. 

"I  sincerely  hope  so." 

"But,  Dick,"  she  said,  reproachfully,  "where's 
your  pride?"  She  stepped  away  from  him  and 
looked  at  him  with  unbelieving  eyes.  "Why,  I 
never  in  my  life  heard  of  such  a  thing!  I  won't 
be  able  to  look  my  friends  in  the  face!" 


280  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

He  smiled  sadly.  "Because  your  husband  earns 
an  honest  living  and  pays  his  debts?" 

Her  face  was  still  half-unbelieving,  wholly  re- 
proachful. "Because  he  could  be  such  a  big  man 
and  as  content  to  be  such  a  little  one.  Dick,  you 
seem  almost — cowardly !" 

This  once  more  roused  him.  MIs  it  being  coward- 
ly to  start  all  over  at  my  age  ?  It  seems  to  me  it 
would  be  more  cowardly  to  go  on  spending  other 
people's  money — money  that  I  could  never  repay. 
And  .  .  .  nevertheless  ...  we  move  ...  on  Mon- 
day." 

He  let  his  shoulders  drop  from  their  tense  strain 
and  leaned  upon  the  table  as  if  he  needed  its  sup- 
port. 

"The  house  is  to  be  made  over  to  my  creditors, 
the  furniture  is  to  be  sold  at  auction  for  their  bene- 
fit. There  will  be  no  money — there  will  be  no  bills 
— no  accounts — no  expenditures  beyond  those  ab- 
solutely necessary.  It  is  my  right  to  insist  upon 
these  things,  Frances,  and  I  do  insist.  Do  you — 
understand?" 

Now  she  dropped  her  attitude  of  incredulity  and 
went  to  him  almost  with  anger  in  her  eyes,  almost 
with  defiance.  "And  suppose  I  refuse?"  she  asked, 
excitedly.  "Suppose  I  refuse  to  give  up  everything 
— even  the  necessities  of  life;  to  relinquish  my 
home,  my  friends,  and  to  go  with  you,  to  the  grati- 
fication of  this  absurd  whim  of  yours?" 

He  looked  at  her  for  an  instant  as  if  not  quite 
comprehending  her  strange  question.  Then  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders.  "That  is  at  your  discre- 
tion. You  can  refuse,  if  you  like." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  281 

"But  you — would  go?" 

He  shook  his  head  helplessly.  "I  have  no 
choice." 

She  did  not  answer  this,  but  turned  away  from 
him  as  if  she  might  be  taking  him  at  his  word — 
abandoning  him. 

"So  it  was  for  better  then,  and  not  for  worse  1" 
said  he. 

Still  she  did  not  look  at  him.  Upon  her  face 
there  was  a  curious  mixture  of  expressions — worry 
being  uppermost — a  worry,  mixed  with  fear;  but 
through  that  look  was  growing  one  of  resolution, 
as  if  she  had  in  mind  the  presentation  of  a  remedy 
for  their  woes  which  might  need  much  explanation, 
but  which,  no  matter  how  hard  it  might  be  to  show 
to  him,  must  be  presented  without  further  waiting. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

When,  having  thought  out  as  best  she  could, 
whatever  matter  was  upon  her  mind,  she  turned 
back  toward  him,  she  saw  that  he  had  crossed  to 
the  great  fire-place  and  stood  leaning  on  the  high 
and  ornate  mantel,  gazing  gloomily  into  the  smold- 
ering embers  of  the  hard-wood  fire  which  had  been 
lighted  when  he  first  came  in.  She  braced  her- 
self as  for  an  effort,  when  he  did  not  turn  to  look 
at  her,  and  then  astonished  him  by  laughing  mer- 
rily. He  turned,  in  his  surprise,  and  gazed  at  her. 

"Oh,  Dick,  Dick,  Dick!"  she  cried.  "You're 
such  a  serious — such  a  very  serious  thing!  You 
don't  know  how  funny  you  are !" 

He  moved  toward  her,  almost  angrily,  words 
of  protest  plainly  rising  to  his  lips,  but  she  put  her 
hand  upon  them  playfully. 

"Now  don't  interrupt  me,"  she  said  gaily.  "I 
didn't  mean  to  tell  you  this,  to-night.  I  was  going 
to  save  it  until  morning,  but  we  won't  have  to  move 
— you  won't  have  to  give  up  your  business — " 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said,  a  light  of  hope 
incredulous,  but  still  of  hope,  leaping  into  being  in 
his  eyes. 

"You  said,  the  other  day  that  you  needed  twenty 
thousand  dollars,  didn't  you?" 

"Why,  yes;  but— " 

Her  voice  was  full  of  laughter,  as  a  mother's 
might  be  who  has  teased  a  child  by  holding  from  it 
sweets  until  it  has  decided  that  there  are  none  and 
begun  to  sulk.  "Well,  here  it  is!" 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  283 

He  moved  toward  her,  with  a  step  which  almost 
tottered,  as  she  took  a  little  roll  of  bank-notes  from 
a  tiny  vanity  purse  which,  during  the  entire  inter- 
view, she  had  been  holding  in  her  hand. 

"Twenty  of  them !"  she  said  gaily,  not  looking  at 
him,  but  busy  with  the  bank-notes.  "One  thousand 
dollars  each.  See  ?  She  held  the  money  up  before 
his  eyes.  'And  they  are  all  for  you !" 

He  was  quite  speechless.  For  an  instant  it  did 
seem  to  him  that  all  his  troubles  had  been  wiped 
away  as  are  the  markings  from  a  school-boy's  slate 
by  one  passage  of  the  sponge,  and  on  his  face  began 
to  grow  a  smile  of  inexpressible  relief. 

She  did  not  hand  the  money  to  him  then,  how- 
ever, but  while  it  rested  loosely  in  one  hand,  peeled 
from  the  little  roll  a  pair  of  bills. 

"I'm  going  to  keep  two,"  said  she,  "and  redeem 
my  jewels  and  get  a  few  little  things  that  I  need. 
You  can  have  all  the  rest."  She  waved  the  roll  of 
money.  "See?  Am  I  not  good  to  you?" 

There  was  the  money  in  her  hands,  before  his 
very  eyes.  It  would  be  asinine  to  doubt,  and  yet — 

"But—"  he  began. 

"What  do  you  say?"  she  gaily  asked,  and  went 
close  to  him,  her  manner  chiding  him  for  not  ex- 
pressing gratitude. 

"But,  Fran—" 

"He's  forgotten  his  manners!"  she  cried  merrily. 
Then  going  closer  to  him:  "You  should  kiss  me 
and  say  'thank  you.' '  She  put  her  arms  around 
his  neck,  one  hand  still  holding  the  crisp,  yellow 
bills. 


284  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"Frances,"  said  he,  and  drew  away  a  little, 
"where  did  you  get  this  money?" 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "that  is  a  secret!" 

He  recoiled  a  little.  "It  can  be  no  secret  from 
me,"  he  insisted.  "I  must  know  where  it  came 
from,  or  I  cannot  take  it.  Don't  you  see?" 

"No,  I  don't  see,"  said  she,  a  little  petulantly. 
"Dick,  what  makes  you  so  frightfully  unpleasant 
to-night.  I  thought  you'd  be  delighted  to  get  that 
money." 

He  shook  his  head,  drew  somewhat  away  from 
her  and  then  sank  into  a  chair,  although  he  kept  his 
questioning  eyes  upon  her  face.  "I  don't  know, 
yet,  that  I  have  any  reason  to  be.  Where  did  you 
get  this  money?" 

She  pouted  very  definitely,  evidently  thinking 
him  unreasonable.  "I  promised  not  to  tell." 

"Then  take  it  back  to  where  you  got  it,"  he  said 
sternly. 

"But,  Dick—" 

"Do  you  suppose  I  can  take  such  a  sum  as  that 
without  knowing  where  it  came  from?" 

"But  you  don't  think  I  stole  it  do  you?"  she 
asked,  much  annoyed  by  his  persistence. 

"Stole  it?  Of  course  not.  But  I  must  know 
from  whom  you  got  it." 

"I  borrowed  it;  I  borrowed  it,"  she  cried,  ex- 
asperated, nervous,  "but  I  promised  that  I  wouldn't 
tell  from  whom." 

"I  must  know,"  he  said.  "Was  it  from  Aunt 
Gretchen?" 

She  was  now  behind  his  chair  and  leaning  slight- 
ly over  him.  At  his  words  she  gave  a  little  start, 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  285 

as  if  either  he  had  guessed  aright  or  had  given 
her  an  idea. 

"From  Aunt  Gretchen — yes,"  said  she.  Then, 
very  positively:  "Aunt  Gretchen  loaned  it  to  me, 
Dick.  But  she  didn't  want  you  to  know  she  had 
changed  her  mind  after  all  she's  said."  Now  she 
spoke  very  earnestly,  with  all  the  charming  empha- 
sis at  her  command,  her  head  nodding  with  each 
syllable.  "So  she  made  me  promise  not  to  tell." 
She  shifted  to  his  other  side,  passing  behind  the 
chair  he  sat  in.  "And  I've  broken  that  promise! 
She'll  be  so  angry !"  Now  she  leaned  forward  just 
a  bit  so  that  she  could  study  his  face  carefully.  It 
almost  seemed  as  if  her  gaze  was  anxious.  "So 
angry !" 

"It's  not  like  her,"  said  Richard,  thoughtfully, 
not  quite  suspiciously,  but  still,  almost  unconvinced. 

"You  don't  doubt  me,  do  you,  Dick?" 

"No,  of  course  not,"  he  said,  trying  to  believe. 
And  then  more  slowly:  "Only  I  don't  understand 
it.  I  don't — "  He  left  his  sentence  uncompleted, 
and  sat  there,  deep  in  thought. 

"And  now,"  said  Frances,  once  more  gay,  "we 
needn't  worry  any  more,  need  we,  Dick?  You  can 
straighten  out  that  nasty  old  business,  and  we  can 
go  on  living  here  as  we  have  been,  can't  we?"  She 
waited  for  an  answer,  but  receiving  none,  she  asked, 
somewhat  anxiously:  "Aren't  you  glad?  Aren't 
you  grateful  to  me?  Don't  you  think  I'm  some 
use  to  you,  after  all?" 

He  still  sat  there,  thoughtful,  puzzled.  He 
knew  Gretchen  Jans,  or  thought  he  did,  and  this 
sudden  generosity  to  a  niece  whom  he  knew  she 


286  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

thought  wastefully  extravagant,  was  not  in  charac- 
ter, at  all.  Had  she  even  come  to  him  and  offered 
him  the  money  on  condition  that  he  pledge  collater- 
al he  would  have  been  astonished;  for  her  to  give  it 
to  Frances, whose  extravagance  he  knew  she  blamed 
for  the  misfortunes  which  had  overtaken  him, 
seemed  quite  incredible. 

"I  don't  understand  it;  I  don't  understand  it — • 
at  all,"  he  said  slowly,  very  gravely. 

"I  don't  see  anything  so  difficult  to  comprehend 
about  it.  I — " 

The  buzz  of  an  electric  bell  attracted  their  at- 
tention. 

"It's  someone  at  the  door,"  said  she,  surprised. 

"The  servants  are  in  bed,"  he  answered.  "I 
will  go." 

"No;  Elise  is  in  the  hall,  waiting  for  me.  .  . 
Elise,  go  to  the  door,  please." 

An  instant  later  and  they  heard  Aunt  Gretchen's 
voice  out  in  the  hall.  "Tell  my  chauffeur,  please," 
she  was  saying  to  Elise,  with  an  accent  in  her  voice 
which  showed  how  heartily  she  hated  the  French 
maid,  "that  I'll  be  out  again  in  just  a  minute." 

Frances  was  plainly  panic-stricken  at  the  sound. 

"Don't  let  her  know  I've  told  you,"  she  said 
hurriedly  to  Dick.  "She'd  be  so  angry." 

He  made  no  answer,  but  stood  looking  first  at 
her  then  at  the  curtains  through  which  the  visitor 
would  presently  appear. 

"I  forgot  my  bag,  when  I  was  here,  this  after- 
noon," Aunt  Gretchen  said,  as  she  showed  in  the 
opening  and  saw  them  standing  there  awaiting  her. 
"I  must  be  losing  my  memory.  In  all  the  twenty 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  287 

years  I've  been  carrying  that  bag  I  never  forgot  it 
before." 

She  gazed  anxiously  about  the  room;  then  seeing 
the  bag  upon  the  table,  started  toward  it. 

"They  begged  me  into  another  of  those  charity 
affairs,  to-night,  and  it  shall  be  the  last,  I've  made 
up  my  mind  to  that.  I  thought  about  the  bag  as  I 
was  going  by  and  when  I  saw  the  lights  I  knew 
you  hadn't  gone  to  bed  yet — so,  as  I'll  need  some 
papers  in  it — " 

For  the  first  time  she  noticed  that  she  had  in- 
terrupted an  unusual  situation.  The  faces  of  both 
man  and  woman  showed  her  that.  She  stopped 
short,  with  her  hand  upon  the  bag  and  looked  from 
Frances  to  her  husband  and  then  back  again. 

"Well, — what — "  she  began,  and  stopped  at 
that. 

Richard's  face  was  hard  and  set  as  he  looked, 
not  at  her  but  at  his  wife,  and  said: 

"Aunt  Gretchen,  did  you  loan  Frances  any  mon- 
ey?" 

"What?"  said  the  visitor,  plainly  much  aston- 
ished. 

"Did  you  lend  Frances  any  money?" 

"Why,  yes,"  Aunt  Gretchen  answered;  "I've 
loaned  Frances  money." 

The  stern  look  faded  from  the  man's  face  as  a 
cloud  may  melt  before  the  sunshine  of  the  spring. 
His  whole  frame  took  on  new  vigor  and  the  set 
lines  of  his  mouth  gave  way  to  a  fine  smile,  of  great 
gratitude  to  her,  of  infinite  apology  to  Frances, 
whom  he  thought  he  had  unjustly  usupected.  The 
man  looked  younger,  far  more  vital,  for  a  moment, 


288  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

than  he  had  looked  before  that  day  or  evening,  and 
his  step,  as  he  went  toward  Aunt  Gretchen,  was 
elastic,  almost  youthful.  A  man  who  finds  himself 
relieved  from  some  great  peril,  suddenly  might 
show  the  same  signs  on  his  face  and  in  the  new 
spring  of  his  muscles. 

"It  was  good  of  you,  Aunt  Gretchen — mighty 
good!"  he  heartily  exclaimed.  "It's  given  me  a 
courage  that  I  didn't  know  was  there.  I  can — pick 
up  the  loose  threads,  now,  and  start  afresh.  I 
didn't  think  I  wanted  to,  but  now  that  the  chance 
is  really  mine — ah,  it  is  different!  Thank  you, 
Aunt  Gretchen !  It  was  fine  of  you ;  and  you,  too, 
Frances — I'm  sorry  dear,  if  I  seemed  to  doubt.  It 
seemed  so  absolutely  unbelievable — I  believe  I'll 
telephone  to  Phil  and  tell  him  that  I  have  the 
twenty  thousand  even  if  it  is  so  late  that  he  has 
probably  gone  to  bed." 

He  touched  his  wife  caressingly  upon  the  shoul- 
er  as  he  hurried  from  the  room. 

Aunt  Gretchen  turned  to  her  with  a  suspicious, 
woried  face,  and  when  she  looked  at  her  her  fears 
were  instantly  confirmed  that  something  here,  was 
not  as  it  should  be. 

"What  did  he  mean?"  she  asked  of  Frances, 
and  as  the  latter  sank,  quite  overcome,  upon  a  sofa, 
she  went  close  to  her  and  peered  into  her  face. 

"Why—" 

"What  did  he  mean?  Twenty  thousand  dollars 
I  gave  you !  Twenty  thousand  dollars  I  ...  What 
have  you  done,  Frances?" 

The  woman  was  desperately  at  work  to  get  her 
wits  together  but  was  not  succeeding  very  well. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  289 

"What  have  I  done?"  she  said.  "Why,  Aunt 
Gretchen,  I—" 

"Don't  lie  to  me,"  said  the  old  woman  steadily. 
"You  got  some  money,  somewhere.  Where  did 
you  get  it?" 

"Aunt  Gretchen,  I—" 

"What  have  you  done?" 

"I've  done  nothing.    I — " 

Aunt  Gretchen,  after  waiting  for  a  moment  for 
her  to  finish  out  the  sentence,  found  that  she  did 
not  have  words  at  hand  with  which  to  do  it.  Satis- 
fied of  this  she  drew  back  and  stood  gazing  at 
her  with  a  growing  look  of  horror  and  distaste 
upon  her  face.  Slowly  now,  she  nodded. 

"So  that's  what  you've  become !"  In  the  words 
there  was  a  strength  of  accusation  which  appalled 
the  woman  on  the  sofa — now  crouching — huddling 
—unhappily  upon  the  sofa. 

"Aunt  Gretchen!  Aunt  Gretchen!"  she  cried 
miserably.  "I  tell  you  I've  done  no  wrong,  Aunt 
Gretchen!" 

"Then  where  did  you  get  that  money?"  said 
the  inexorable  old  woman. 

"Aunt  Gretchen,  I—" 

"Tell  me!" 

"But—" 

"If  you  don't  tell  me,  then  it  shall  be  for  Richard 
to  find  out." 

Frances  started  from  the  couch  and  caught  her 
arm  imploringly.  Suddenly  her  face  had  filled 
with  horror.  "You  wouldn't  tell  Richard!  For 
God's  sake  don't  do  that !"  she  cried.  "He  might 
not  understand.  I — " 


290  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Ward's  footstep,  coming  from  the  telephone, 
sounded  now,  on  the  bare,  polished  floor  of  the 
hallway.  The  elder  woman  turned  to  meet  him, 
the  younger  crouched  in  fear  quite  overmastering 
upon  the  couch.  But  he  was  deep  in  thought  and 
did  not  at  first,  observe  that  anything  unusual  had 
occurred  between  them. 

"Aunt  Gretchen,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  didn't 
'phone  Cartwright."  His  tone  was  listless  and  his 
step  was  heavy.  "This  money  would  only  pay  my 
debts.  It  would  only  be  the  same  old  fight,  all  over 
again.  No — I've  made  up  my  mind,  and  I'll  go 
through  with  it.  Thank  you,  just  the  same."  He 
turned  now,  toward  his  wife,  although  so  deeply 
buried  was  he  in  his  thoughts  that  still  he  failed  to 
notice  the  unusual  appearance  of  the  woman. 
"And  you  too,  Frances  dear,  But  ...  I  can't  take 
the  money."  Again  he  turned  toward  the  elder 
woman,  and  this  time,  held  the  money  out  to  her. 

She  shrank  back  from  it  as  if  its  very  touch 
would  harm  her.  "No — no — no  !"  she  said,  not 
much  above  a  whisper. 

He  was  much  surprised.  "But,  Aunt  Gret- 
chen—" 

"No,"  said  the  old  woman  slowly,  "give  it  back 
— to — Frances.  She  didn't  get  it  from  me." 

Without  another  word,  another  glance  at  either 
of  them,  she  hurried  from  the  room,  leaving  Rich- 
ard gazing  at  his  wife  with  a  look  upon  his  face 
of  terrible  suspicion  which,  as  he  gazed,  and  she 
cowered  and  shook  before  him,  turned  into  an  ex- 
pression of  sheer  horror. 

Slowly  he  let  his  fingers  loosen  on  the  roll  of 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  291 

money  and  it  fell  upon  the  floor — between  them — 
while  he  stared  at  her  with  wide,  almost  affrighted 
eyes.  A  horrid  thought  was  rising  in  his  mind,  a 
horrid  impulse  urged  his  tongue  to  horrid  words. 
To  save  himself,  save  her,  he  went  slowly  from  the 
room,  found  his  hat  and  coat  in  the  dark  hallway 
and  stumbled  from  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  little  rain  had  fallen  and  the  surface  of  the 
asphalt  on  the  Avenue  glittered  with  the  reflections 
of  electric  lights  as  if  it  had  been  studded  with  in- 
numerable jewels,  inlaid  with  burnished,  crinkled 
copper,  made  transparent  and  illuminated  by  soft 
fires  underground.  A  taxi  hurried  by,  with  almost 
silent,  swishing  wheels,  its  exhaust  muffled  into  a 
low  burr;  a  touring  car,  less  expertly  handled, 
passed,  shattering  the  silence  of  the  night  with  in- 
numerable explosions;  the  pat-pat,  pat-pat  of  a  cab- 
horse  passed  him  and  he  saw  within  the  vehicle  as 
it  went  beneath  the  glare  of  an  electric  light  the 
faces  of  a  young  couple  whom  he  knew.  They  had 
not  long  been  married  and  they  were  not  rich. 
Plainly  they  were  going  home  from  some  late 
supper  and  they  were  leaning  not  apart  but  toward 
each  'other  in  the  cab.  A  hard  smile  moved  his 
face,  and  as  the  young  man,  seeing  him,  leaned 
forward,  waved  his  hand  and  called  a  greeting, 
he  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  went  on, 
without  response.  "Poor  devil!"  he  was  thinking. 
"Wait !  Wait  till  he  learns  what  marriage  means  1" 

A  little  farther  down  the  Avenue  there  is  an  en- 
trance to  the  Park  and  he  crossed  the  asphalt  and 
went  over  to  it.  For  a  time  he  stood  there,  where 
the  roadway  dipped  softly  into  the  velvet  darkness 
of  the  deserted  pleasure-ground,  debating  with  him- 
self as  to  whether  he  could  think  best  there,  in  the 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  293 

night  solitude  of  dripping  trees,  or  out  upon  the 
thoroughfares  where  would  be  human  beings.  A 
suspicious  officer  came  closer  to  him  and  peered 
into  his  face.  One  glance  he  found  enough. 

"Move  on;  Park's  closed,"  he  lied.  Once  he 
had  let  a  man  pass  in  who  looked  a  little  bit  like 
that  and,  in  the  morning,  he  had  been  found  near  a 
dense  clump  of  bushes,  dead.  "Move  on!"  he  said 
again,  this  time  with  more  emphasis  and  then 
recognized  the  man  he  spoke  to.  He  had  often 
seen  him  entering  and  leaving  the  great  new  house 
across  the  Avenue.  "Oh,  Mr.  Ward!"  said  he. 
"That  you?  Excuse  me,  sir.  We  have  to  be  right 
careful,  though." 

"It's  all  right,  Murphy,"  Ward  replied.  "I 
can't  sleep  to-night.  I — thought  perhaps  a  walk 
— there  in  the  Park — " 

Murphy  was  looking  at  him  closely,  and  sudden- 
ly, remembered  that  there  had  been  something 
about  the  failure  of  a  Wall  Street  firm,  with 
"Ward"  in  the  name,  somehow,  in  The  Evening 
Sun,  that  day. 

"Sure,"  he  said,  with  quick  diplomacy.  "I  know. 
Ain't  I  that  way,  on  an'  off,  mesilf?  But — the 
Park's  a  drippy  place  the  night,  sir.  Best  stick 
to  the,  pavement." 

Ward  nodded  and  went  on,  but,  cautiously,  the 
officer  kept  track  of  him  and  saw  to  it  that  he  did 
not  slip  into  the  next  entrance  to  the  silent  and  de- 
serted space  of  greenery.  Satisfied  that  he  had 
given  up  the  thought  of  entering  it,  he  turned  back 
and  went  upon  the  business  of  his  beat. 

"Sure,   I   dunno.     Maybe  it's  better  to  be  so 


294  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

domned  poor  that  you  can't  lose  money,  like  I  am, 
mesilf,"  he  mused. 

On,  on  Richard  walked,  seeing  nothing,  hearing 
just  enough  to  keep  him  from  disaster  at  the  cros- 
ings,  thinking,  thinking,  thinking  of  the  black  and 
tragic  shadow  which  had  fallen  suddenly  upon  his 
business  life,  of  the  blacker,  far  more  tragic  shad- 
ow.which  had  fallen  now  on  his  home  life  to  over- 
lie the  other,  make  it  denser,  heavier,  more  tragic. 
"Where  had  Frances  got  that  money?  What — 
what — oh,  good  God! — what  had  she  paid  for  it? 
What  had  his  wife  paid  for  that  money? 

The  clocks  were  striking  two  as  he  went  into  his 
house  again.  He  had  considered  many  things — 
among  them  that  which  the  policeman  had  suspect- 
ed, but  now  he  wished  one  thing  alone,  and  wished 
it  with  so  great  a  strength  that  it  was  almost  vio- 
lence. He  must  know — must  know — all. 

In  the  hall  he  laid  aside  his  coat  and  hat  with 
such  care  as  he  had  not  shown  before  since  he  had 
left  the  dim  old  quarters  on  the  Square.  He  even 
took  his  gloves  off,  carefully  pulling  at  them  finger 
after  finger,  and  after  he  had  quite  removed  them 
stripped  them  through  his  circled  thumb  and  fingers 
creasing  them  together,  and  placed  them,  with  ex- 
actness, upon  the  table  by  his  hat.  After  that  he 
stood  in  the  half-light  of  the  hall  and  looked  about 
the  place  with  something  kin  to  curiosity,  as  if  he 
had  come  into  it  for  the  first  time  and  wished  to 
fix  a  firm  impression  of  it  on  his  memory.  A  tapes- 
try upon  the  wall  seemed  to  attract  him  and  he  soft- 
ly crossed  to  it — his  movements  were  as  stealthy  as 
a  burglar's — and  fingered  it  slowly,  curiously,  as  if 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  295 

he  might  be  studying  its  weave.  Upon  the  floor  an 
evening  paper  lay,  where  he  had  dropped  it.  He 
picked  it  up  and  folded  it  with  utmost  care  and 
placed  it  neatly  on  the  table  underneath  his  hat. 

Finally  he  went  slowly,  still  as  carefully  as  a 
marauder,  fearful  of  discovery,  to  the  broad  stair- 
way, and  keeping  one  hand  ever  on  the  wide, 
carved  banister,  began  to  mount.  As  he  went  up 
his  eyes  roamed,  ever  here  and  there,  as  if  in  care- 
ful observation  of  the  details  of  the  hangings  and 
the  carved  panelling  at  one  side.  Once  or  twice 
he  paused  and  peered  down  across  the  banister  into 
the  hall  below,  not  apprehensively,  as  if  he  feared 
that  someone  might  be  there  and  watching  him, 
but  curiously,  as  if  he  wished  to  see  this  -place  in 
every  detail — as  if  he  never  in  his  life  before  had 
seen  it,  might  not  ever  look  at  it  again. 

Having  reached  the  top  of  the  long  flight  he 
turned,  and  slowly,  still  very  cautiously,  made  his 
way  along  the  hall,  past  the  library  and  smoking- 
roorn,  on  one  side,  the  breakfast-room  and  music- 
room  upon  the  other,  and  then  started,  still  with 
great  deliberation,  utmost  caution  to  be  noiseless, 
up  the  second  stairway.  At  the  head  of  that  he 
paused,  in  deep  thought,  for  a  long  time.  Then 
he  went  to  his  own  room,  stood  there  for  a  time 
before  the  mirror,  looking  at  his  own  reflection, 
and  then  crossed  the  room  and  opened  the  door 
which  led  from  it  into  his  dressing-room,  opened 
the  door  which  led  from  that  into  his  wife's  boudoir, 
opened  the  door  which  led  from  that  into  her  bed- 
room. All  this  was  done  silently.  Always  he 
walked  soft-footed  as  a  burglar  might,  always  he 


296  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

studied  carefully  each  object  which,  by  chance,  fell 
underneath  his  line  of  vision,  as  if  he  wished  to 
print  a  perfect  picture  of  it  on  his  mind  for  future 
reference.  At  length  he  stood  in  his  wife's  bed- 
room, crossed  it  and  stood  beside  her  bed,  looking 
down  at  her. 

He  studied  her  as  carefully  as  he  had  studied  all 
the  other  things  which  he  had  looked  at  with  such 
minute  observation  since  he  had  first  come  in. 
But  there  was  this  difference  between  the  look  he 
bent  on  her  and  those  which  he  had  given  to  the 
various  inanimate  objects  of  his  previous  survey. 
He  saw  his  wife.  He  had  not  seen  a  single  one  of 
them — when  he  had  touched  the  carving,  curiously, 
with  finger-tips,  he  had  been  quite  unconscious  of  it; 
that  he  had  fingered  the  old  tapestry  with  minute 
care  he  did  not  know;  he  had  not  the  slightest 
recollection  of  his  entrance  to  the  house  or  any 
of  the  details  of  the  climb  upstairs. 

The  room  in  which  he  stood  now,  was  a  dainty 
place — filled  with  costly  delicacies  of  foreign  arti- 
sans' most  airy  furnishings,  decked  with  hangings 
from  world-famous  looms,  carpeted  with  rugs  from 
far-off  lands  beyond  the  Caspian,  woven  in  for- 
gotten centuries  for  the  devout  to  offer  prayers  to 
Allah  on.  The  bed,  of  carven  brass  and  canopied 
as  might  a  queen's  throne  be,  was  of  course  the 
dominating  feature  of  the  room,  and  on  it  a  lace- 
shaded  bulb  threw  a  soft  light,  revealing  plainly 
the  soundly  sleeping  woman.  She  made  a  very  love- 
ly picture  as  the  shaded  light  revealed  her  to  her 
husband's  eyes.  One  bare  arm  was  thrown  above 
her  head  upon  the  snowy,  lace-slipped  pillow,  the 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  297 

other  curved  across  the  silken  counterpane  until  its 
hand  hung  limply,  gracefully  beyond  the  bed's  left 
edge.  Her  hair  was  slightly  tumbled  and  through 
the  thin  counterpane  which  covered  her  the  graceful 
lines  of  her  delightful  figure  were  revealed  by 
sweeping  curves  of  shadow. 

He  made  no  sound  whatever,  did  not  speak  to 
her,  or  even  draw  a  sigh  which  possibly  could  have 
aroused  her.  He  merely  stood  close  by  the  foot  of 
her  bed  and  gazed  at  her — gazed  with  an  intent- 
ness  which  commanded. 

In  obedience  to  this  strange  stare  she  moved,  a 
moment  later,  and  drew  a  shuddering  breath,  on 
which  were  borne  the  remnants  of  the  sobs  which 
had  convulsed  her  ere  she  went  to  sleep. 

He  did  not  change  his  attitude  of  steady  observa- 
tion by  the  movement  of  a  muscle. 

Again  a  breath  came  from  her  slightly  parted 
lips  broken  by  the  little  gaspings  of  past  sobs.  Her 
eyelids  fluttered. 

Still  the  man  there  by  the  foot  of  the  carved  bed 
remained  immovable,  his  eyes  intently  fixed  upon 
her  face,  peering  a  little  in  the  dimness  of  the  light, 
his  mouth  set  in  a  hard  line,  his  brow  drawn  into  a 
deep  frown  of  mingled  pain  and  wrath. 

A  moment  later  and  her  fluttering  eyelids 
opened.  Although  the  man  who  stood  there  watch- 
ing her  had  made  no  sound.  At  first  she  did  not 
know  what  had  awakened  her. 

For  a  few  seconds,  even  after  she  had  roused, 
she  still  groped  to  find  what  had  disturbed  her; 
then  she  saw  him. 

"Dick  .  .  .  Dick?"    she    said,    frightened,    al- 


298  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

though  sleep  had  driven  for  the  moment  from  her 
mind,  the  dreadful  things  which  had  occurred,  the 
dreadful  things  she  feared  might  soon  occur. 
"Dick?"  she  said  again.  "It's  .  .  .  you  .  .  .  isn't  it? 
What  time  is  it?" 

He  made  no  answer,  he  did  not  change  his  rigid 
pose  by  movement  of  a  muscle. 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Richard?"  she  ex- 
claimed, now  sitting  up  in  bed,  her  loose  hair  fall- 
ing down  upon  her  shoulders,  her  loosely  fastened, 
low-cut  night-robe  revealing  beautiful  soft  curves 
of  rounded  flesh.  "Dick?  Dick?" 

Still  he  posed  there,  silent  and  immovable..  It 
scared  her. 

"Why  don't  you  speak  to  me?"  she  cried.  "You 
frighten  me!  ...  What  is  it,  Dick?  There's  noth- 
ing wrong,  is  there?"  Her  voice  was  rising  in  ex- 
citement and  she  huddled  toward  him  in  the  bed 
a  little,  drawing  up  her  knees,  beneath  the  thin  silk 
coverings  and  clasping  them  with  her  two  hands. 

Still  he  stood  there  looking  at  her,  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

"Why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that  ?  . . .  Why — " 
She  shrank  a  little  from  him,  then  crouched,  star- 
ing at  him,  her  fright  growing.  "Don't,  Dick! 
Don't"  she  cried.  "Don't  stand  there,  that  way! 
Please  don't,  Dick!  You  make  me  nervous!  You 
— frighten  me !  .  .  .  Speak  to  me !" 

He  made  neither  sound  nor  movement. 

"Please  speak  to  me!  Say  something!"  she  im- 
plored. "Do  something,  Dick!  .  .  .  What  is  it? 
Tell  me  what  it  is?" 

She  pressed  the  knuckles  of  one  hand  against 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  299 

her  lips  and  gazed  at  him,  affrighted,  while  with 
the  other  hand  and  rigid  arm  she  held  herself  from 
falling  backward  from  him  in  sheer  terror. 

"It's  .  .  .  not  about  the  money,  is  it?  We 
settled  all  that,  didn't  we?  I — told  you  that  Aunt 
Getchen  gave  it  to  me,  and  you  believed  me,  didn't 
you?  You  believed  me !  .  .  .  It  can't  be  that !  .  .  . 
So  what  is  it,  Dick?  Has  anything  else  happened? 
.  .  .  Tell  me !  Speak  to  me !  .  .  .  Speak  to  me !" 

Still  he  stood  there,  silent  and  immovable,  and 
although  she  plainly  feared  to  do  it,  she  now 
crawled  across  the  tumbled  covers  until  she  was 
very  near  him  at  the  foot  of  the  great  bed.  There 
she  sat  upon  one  hip,  her  body  twisted,  her  weight 
resting  on  her  hands,  her  face  very  white  and 
turned  toward  his,  her  eyes  extremely  large  and 
frightened. 

"You  know  I  would'nt  lie  to  you,  don't  you, 
Dick?"  she  begged.  "You  know  I  wouldn't  try  to 
deceive  you — that  I've  told  you  the  truth.  It's  so, 
Dick !  Really  it's  so.  .  .  Aunt  Gretchen  loaned  it 
to  me  .  .  .  You  believe  me,  Dick?  .  .  .  You  must 
believe  me  1" 

Still  he  made  no  slightest  sign  nor  sound. 

"Ah!"  she  cried,  "you  mustn't  make  me  explain 
it  all  again !  Why — it's  so  easy  to  understand — so 
simple.  Don't  you  see?" 

He  made  no  movement  whatsoever. 

"It's  something  else,  then!"  she  exclaimed,  her 
fear  increasing.  "It's  something  else  that's  troub- 
ling you,  isn't  it?  Tell  me  that  it  is!  Tell  me 
that  it  is,  Richard!" 

He  stood  there  like  a  sombre  statue. 


300  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

She  almost  screamed  in  nervous  terror.  "Dick, 
you'll  drive  me  mad!  .  .  .  Mad  I  .  .  .  Don't  you 
see  I  can't  stand  it?  ...  Your  .  .  .  eyes  .  .  .  you 
look  at  me  as  though  I'd  done  some  awful  thing. 
And  I  haven't.  I've  done  nothing — nothing — 

NOTHING! Do  you  hear  me?  Nothing! 

.  .  .  Why,  Richard—"  ' 

Suddenly  she  shrank  back  farther  even  than  she 
had  before,  crumpled  on  the  bed  like  a  crushed 
thing  and  desperately  clasped  her  face  with  her  two 
hands. 

"Oh,  my  God!"  she  cried.  "My  God!  You've 
found  out!  You've  seen  him!" 

She  crouched  now  in  a  mere  huddle,  not  look- 
ing at  him ;  but  her  shoulders  shook  in  mighty  sobs, 
although  she  scarcely  made  a  sound.  Behind  the 
clenched  hands  which  were  held  to  them  she  bit 
her  lips — gnawed  at  them.  She  waited  thus,  for  a 
long  time  before  she  spoke  again,  and  during  all 
this  time  the  man  there  at  the  bed's  foot  made  no 
sound  nor  movement.  He  stood  exactly  as  he  had 
stood  from  the  moment  when  he  first  approached 
the  bed. 

"It  was  for  you — to  save  you,  Dick !"  she  urged 
at  last,  "and  I  never  meant  anything  wrong.  I 
swear  it,  Dick!  I  never  meant  the  least  thing 
wrong.  He  .  .  .  tried  to  make  love  to  me  ...  but 
I  wouldn't  let  him.  I  borrowed  the  money  of  him 
— yes — but  it  was  to  save  you,  Richard.  .  .  Don't 
you  suppose  I  had  seen  how  you  were  suffering?  I 
— made  up  my  mind  that  you  must  be  saved,  and 
what  could  I,  a  woman,  do?  He  offered  to  lend 
me  money  and  I — took  it.  Not  for  myself,  Rich- 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  301 

ard,  but  to  save  you!  He  said  he  was  my  friend 
and  yours.  The  money  meant  nothing  to  him. 
He  has  millions — and  it  would  save  us!  So  I — 
took  it.  But  there  was  nothing  else,  Richard  ...  I 
swear  it !  I  said  nothing,  I  promised  nothing.  And 
.  .  .  what  he  chose  to  think  is  none  of  our  business. 
I  gave  him  no  right  to  think  it." 

Still  the  man  stood  looking  at  her  without  so 
much  as  even  swaying  on  his  feet  at  what  he  heard. 

"We  can  pay  it  back,  and  no  one  will  ever  know. 
Of  course  I  don't  know  Suffern  Thorne  will — " 

Now  the  man  there  at  the  bed's  foot  spoke  and 
the  voice  which  issued  from  his  lips  was  thick,  at 
first — a  curdled  voice.  Then  it  came  cold  as  ice 
and  sharp  as  knives. 

"So  it  was  Suffern  Thorne !  Suffern  Thorne  gave 
you  twenty  thousand  dollars !"  Still  he  stood  there 
motionless  save  for,  after  he  had  ceased  to  speak, 
a  twitching  of  the  lips. 

"But  there  was  no  harm  in  that,  Richard,"  she 
insisted.  "He  has  plenty  and  we  have  so  little.  It 
was  what  any  man  might  do,  and  there  was  noth- 
ing else — I  swear  it!" 

"Men  like  Suffern  Thorne,"  said  he,  still  in  a 
voice  which  no  one  knowing  him  and  not  seeing 
him  would  have  recognized  as  his,  "don't  give 
twenty  thousand  dollars  for  nothing." 

"But—" 

"You  lied  to  me  once,"  said  he,  intensely,  and 
now  he  leaned  a  little  across  the  bed's  foot,  toward 
her.  "Do  you  expect  me  to  believe  you,  now?" 

"I'm  your  wife,  Richard,"  she  cried,  terrified, 
"and  I've  done  no  wrong!" 


- 


302  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

"That  shall  be  for  you  to  confess,  or  for  me  to 
find  out,"  he  said  without  a  movement  of  his  face, 
except  that  of  the  lips  to  form  the  words,  without 
the  slightest  movement  of  his  body.  "Send  for 
him." 

The  woman  shrank  back  on  the  bed  in  a  new 
access  of  horror.  This  was  more  terrible  than  any 
of  the  terrors  her  intimidated  mind  had  conjured 
up.  To  send  for  him — for  Suffern  Thorne — 

"Send  .  .  .  for  him?"  she  breathed,  incredulous. 

"Yes;  send  for  him." 

"Not.  ..now!" 

"Now." 

"But  .  .  .  here?  Like  .  .  .  this?"  She  slid  out 
of  the  bed,  as  if  perhaps  she  thought  of  flight  from 
this  implacable,  terrific  man — this  new  Richard  of 
whom  she  had  never  dreamed  before — this  Richard 
without  mercy,  without  love,  without  any  of  the 
qualities  which  had  been  his  all  his  life  long. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  awakened  he  left 
his  post  at  the  foot  of  her  bed,  and  as  she  cowered 
against  the  wall,  near  its  head,  went  to  her  and 
took  her  hand.  He  did  not  do  this  roughly — his 
grasp  of  her  fingers  was  loose;  but  there  was  an 
inevitability  about  his  manner  which  did  not  let  her 
hesitate.  She  shrank  back  and  held  herself  as  far 
from  him  as  she  could,  but  she  went  with  him,  with- 
out even  an  effort  to  pull  her  fingers  from  his  grasp 
of  them.  She  tottered  as  she  walked  as  might  a 
woman  sick  with  fever,  but  she  followed  him  with- 
out resistance,  without  even  another  word  of  pro- 
test. 

He  led  her  to  the  little  table  by  her  dresser  on 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  303 

which  stood  a  telephone.  Not  until  they  reached 
this  did  he  speak  again  and  then  he  answered  her 
last  question. 

"Here.    Like  this,"  he  said.    "Send  for  him." 

She  sank  into  the  chair  beside  the  telephone,  and 
with  her  hands  gripped  on  the  wood  which  edged 
its  seat,  she  leaned  forward,  her  bare  feet  huddled 
underneath  the  flowing  stuff  which  formed  her 
night-gown,  her  hair  falling  over  either  shoulder 
and  now  very  much  dishevelled,  her  eyes  big,  wild, 
incredulous.  Her  elbows,  slightly  bent,  were  tremb- 
ling, and  although  she  had  stopped  sobbing,  her 
lips  quivered. 

"You  can  get  him  at  his  apartments  or  his  club," 
her  husband  told  her  coldly.  Then  he  added  very 
very  coldly:  "You  probably  know  which." 

She  did  not  answer,  for  she  could  not.  The  man 
was  terrible;  a  creature  unbelievable.  Now,  as  her 
fascinated  eyes  hung  on  his  movements,  she  saw 
that  he  was  turning  over,  carefully,  not  hurriedly, 
the  pages  of  the  Telephone  Directory,  after  he 
had  snapped  on  an  electric  light. 

"His  number  is  seven,  four,  four,  three,  Plaza," 
he  informed  her. 

Now  he  pushed  the  telephone  toward  her  and 
waited,  but  she  did  not  raise  her  hands  from  their 
fierce  grip  of  the  chair's  sides.  She  did  not  speak 
at  all,  but  looked  at  him  with  wide  eyes,  like  an 
animal  held  in  the  spell  of  deadly  fear. 

"Call  it,"  he  commanded. 

Her  teeth  were  chattering  now,  and  she  could 
not  have  spoken  if  she  would.  He  noted  this  and 
nodded. 


304  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Then  he  took,  himself,  the  telephone  receiver 
from  its  nickel  prong  and,  when  the  operator  re- 
plied, gave  the  number. 

While  he  waited  for  an  answer  her  trembling 
became  terrible  but  it  did  not  move  him.  Huddled 
in  her  thin  robe  in  that  chair  she  shook  as  if  she 
might  have  been  clad  thus,  in  the  fierce  cold  of  a 
mid-winter  night.  It  was  obviously  quite  impossi- 
ble for  her  to  do  as  he  had  ordered,  so  after  a  long 
look  at  her,  he  gave  the  number  to  the  operator 
himself. 

Then  he  held  the  receiver  to  his  ear  and  waited. 
Presently  his  face  showed  that  the  call  was  an- 
swered, and  still  holding  the  receiver  to  his  ear, 
he  extended  the  transmitter  toward  her.  When  she 
failed  to  raise  her  hand  to  take  it,  he  himself,  held 
it  to  her  lips.  Then  he  pressed  the  orifice  of  the 
receiver  tight  against  his  chest  so  that  no  sound 
could  get  into  it,  and  gave  her  her  instructions, 
still  in  that  cold  voice,  unaccented,  unexcited,  but 
implacable. 

"Tell  him  you  are  Mrs.  Ward,"  said  he. 

In  a  faint  voice,  after  one  look  of  tremendous 
agony  and  fear  at  him,  she  said,  into  the  reciever: 
"I  am  Mrs.  Ward." 

He  listened  to  the  answer,  but  he  did  not  tell 
her  what  it  was. 

"Tell  him  to  come  here,  at  once,"  said  he  again 
protecting  the  receiver  of  the  telephone  against 
his  words. 

"Come — here — at — once,"  said  she,  as  might  one 
hypnotized  and  powerless  to  resist. 

"Tell  him  you  are  alone." 


TELL   HIM   TO   COME    HERE    AT   ONCE,   THAT  YOU   ABE    ALONE    HERE. 

-•  Page  304. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  305 

«I_am_alone." 

"That  the  door  will  be  unlocked." 

"The  door — will  be — unlocked." 

"Tell  him  to  come  to  the  lighted  room." 

"And  come  to  the — lighted — room." 

Fiercely  he  thrust  the  telephone  receiver  back 
upon  its  prong,  after  he  had  heard  what  answer  the 
man  sent.  Then  he  turned  and  looked  at  her,  still 
with  the  same  expression.  It  was  as  if  his  face  had 
frozen. 

"Oh,  my  God!  What  have  I  done?"  Frances 
cried,  relieved  now  of  the  almost  trance-like  spell 
in  which  she  had  been  held.  "Let  me  tell  him  not 
to  come,"  she  pleaded.  'I  must  tell  him  not  to 
come." 

He  had  stepped  now  to  a  little  distance  from  the 
telephone  and  she  sprang  to  it  and  snatched  it 
from  its  resting  place  upon  the  table.  She  had 
taken  the  receiver  from  its  hook  and  stood  there, 
crouching,  listening  for  an  answer  from  the  opera- 
tor, when  without  haste,  but  with  that  same  finality 
of  movement,  that  same  cold,  unexcited  but  terrific 
look,  he  caught  the  wire  that  led  from  the  instru- 
ment to  the  wall,  and  with  a  quick  jerk  of  his  two 
hands,  broke  it.  He  let  the  ends  of  the  silk- 
wound  wires  fall,  carelessly. 

Seeing  that  her  effort  was  quite  hopeless,  she 
backed  away  from  him,  her  hands  clutched  at  her 
breast. 

"Haven't  I  suffered  enough?"  she  cried.  "I'm 
half  mad,  now!  I  don't  know  what  I'm  doing 
.  .  .  Pity  me,  Richard,  pity  me!  .  .  .  You're  not 
even  just !  You're  making  me  guilty  .  .  .  and  I  am 


306  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

innocent!  .  .  .  Oh,  God!  ...  I  can't  think.  My 
mind  is  dead  .  .  Spare  me,  spare  me  until  morning, 
Richard — only  until  then!"  She  caught  his  bent 
arm  with  her  hands  and  clung  to  it  If  he  had 
drawn  it  from  her  clasp  she  would  have  fallen. 
"Only  until  then!" 

"You  lied  to  me." 

"It  was  for  you!"  she  cried.  "It  was  all  a  sac- 
rifice for  you !"  She  sunk  beside  him,  to  her  knees. 

Her  clasp  relaxed  and  instantly  he  drew  away 
from  her.  "I  want  no  such  sacrifice  as  that.  Great 
God!  How  little  you  know!"  He  looked  at  her, 
now  with  more  expression  on  his  face — high  scorn 
was  driving  from  it  that  cold  look  of  deadly  calm. 
"How  shrunken  and  shrivelled  is  your  sense  of 
right  and  wrong!" 

"It  was  to  help  you,  Richard,"  she  insisted.  "It 
was  because  I  loved  you." 

Now  he  was  quite  roused.  For  the  first  time 
since  he  had  entered  the  room  his  voice  rose  higher 
than  an  ordinary  tone.  "Because  you  loved  me ! 
It  was  because  you  loved  yourself!  Because  what 
moral  sense  you  ever  possessed  has  been  lost  in 
the  depths  of  your  selfishness.  Have  you  ever  lived 
for  anyone  but  yourself?  Have  you  ever  done  any- 
thing for  anyone  but  yourself?  .  .  .  You  know  you 
haven't!" 

"Richard,  I—" 

She  did  not  finish  out  the  sentence,  but  as  he 
moved  away  from  her  she  followed  him,  as  best 
she  could,  upon  her  knees. 

He  paid  not  the  least  attention  to  her  supplica- 
tions, but  moved  on  and  toward  the  door.  "I'll 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  307 

unlock  the  outer  door,  and  leave  this  door  open," 
he  said  grimly.  "Wait!" 

While  he  was  absent  from  the  room  she  cowered 
by  the  bed,  huddled  like  a  half-clad  child  pierced 
by  the  cold.  Her  eyes  stared  straight  in  front  of 
her  at  nothing,  seeing  visions  of  dread  horror  un- 
guessed  at  in  the  unreflective,  happy,  careless  days 
of  her  whole  previous  existence.  Her  tremors  did 
not,  for  an  instant,  cease.  The  lace  upon  her  night- 
robe  shook  as  if  a  breeze  were  fluttering  it.  Her 
hands  shook,  her  elbows  jerked  as  if  with  palsy. 
The  hair  which,  repeatedly  she  tried  to  loosely 
fashion  into  a  knot  to  keep  it  out  of  her  way,  was 
shaken  down  again,  each  time,  by  the  trembling 
of  her  head. 

As  her  husband  came  back  into  the  room  she 
stretched  her  trembling  hands  out  toward  him. 
"Richard,  for  God's  sake,"  she  cried,  "is  there  no 
chance  for  me?  .  .  .  You  will  not  know  .  .  .  yet  you 
will  think  you  know  .  .  ." 

He  looked  at  her  intently.  "I — can  tell,"  he 
said. 

Then,  at  last,  he  made  a  gesture  of  real  feeling 
— the  first  break  from  the  stiff  monotony  of  his 
bodily  control  since  the  tense  scene  had  begun.  He 
threw  his  arms  up  wildly,  and  when  he  spoke  again 
the  words  were  a  despairing  cry. 

"God,  I  can  tell!" 

Instantly  he  got  himself  in  hand  again,  how- 
ever, but  now  had  come  another  look  upon  his  face 
— a  look  of  vicious  wrath  which  meant  that,  having 
suffered  awful  wrong,  he  had  decided  on  reprisal. 
He  moved  across  the  room  with  a  new  litheness 


3o8  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

and  from  a  dresser-drawer  took  a  revolver.  Then 
he  stood  quite  silent,  listening,  with  the  glittering 
thing  held  in  his  hand. 

"But— Richard— " 

He  raised  his  hand  to  silence  her,  for  he  had 
heard  a  sound  outside.  Cautiously  he  laid  the 
pistol  in  the  drawer  again,  but  left  the  drawer  well 
opened. 

With  a  half-stifled  gasp  Frances  crept  quickly 
to  the  bed,  sat  upon  it,  put  her  feet  up  quickly  and 
drew  the  covers  up  to  hide  them  and  her  night-robe. 
She  held  them  tightly  clutched  beneath  her  chin. 
Her  tremors  had  not  for  a  second  ceased. 

An  instant  later  and  upon  the  stairs  they  both 
heard  cautious  footsteps.  There  was  a  little  sound 
as  of  a  man  who  stumbled  on  a  wrinkled  rug  but 
quickly  caught  himself,  then  paused,  to  see  if  any- 
one had  been  aroused,  then  cautiously  came  on 
again* 

An  instant  later  Suffern  Thorne  appeared  at  the 
room  door,  peered  in,  with  cautious  glance,  then 
entered,  cat-like,  stooped  a  little  because  his  knees 
were  bent  as  he  progressed  on  tip-toe. 

For  a  moment  he  could  see  but  poorly  in  the 
half  gloom  of  the  room  and  he  stood,  blinking,  at 
the  entrance.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  Frances, 
shrinking  in  the  bed. 

"Well?"  he  whispered. 

She  made  no  reply,  but  he  evidently  expected 
none.  The  fact  that  she  was  there,  and  as  she 
was,  plainly  entirely  satisfied  him.  Upon  his  face 
there  was  a  half-smile — a  look  of  one  who  wins, 
after  an  exciting  contest — wins  something  very 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  309 

much  worth  winning.  His  overcoat  was  on  his  arm 
and  that  and  his  hat  he  laid  upon  the  couch.  The 
dead  black  of  his  evening  clothes,  the  dead  white 
of  his  linen  made  him  stand  out  sharply  against  the 
light  walls  and  furniture. 

Having  laid  his  hat  and  coat  upon  the  couch  he 
turned  to  go  to  her,  pulling  off  his  white  gloves  as 
he  went. 

Richard  stepped  in  front  of  him. 

The  man  shrank  back,  a  little;  but,  although 
he  cringed,  he  did  not  wholly  play  the  coward.  He 
made  no  attempt  to  get  away — he  merely  stood 
there,  evidently  very  much  nonplussed,  but  realiz- 
ing that  the  only  thing  to  do  was  to  stand  still. 

"Oh,  you're  here,  are  you?"  he  said,  almost 
calmly.  He  let  his  hands  drop,  as  if  he  might  have 
lost  a  trick  at  cards.  "Then  she  lied  to  me." 

"You're  not  alone  in  that,"  said  Richard,  quiet- 
ly. "She  lied  to  me,  too." 

Thorne  now  sneered  smilingly  at  him.  "It  was 
grounds  for  a  divorce  you  wanted,  I  suppose. 
Well,  you've  got  'em." 

Richard  made  no  answer  to  this  speech,  but  took 
his  purse  out  of  his  pocket,  took  the  bills  out  of  the 
purse  and  laid  them  on  the  table  at  Thome's  elbow. 
"There!"  said  he,  and  moved  away  from  him, 
watching  him,  meanwhile. 

"Hum!"  said  Thorne,  surprised. 

He  did  not  seem  to  be  excited.  He  was  of  the 
type  which  does  not  lose  its  self-possession. 

"Well,  said  Ward,  "what  did  you  get  for  your 
money?  For  men  like  you  don't  give  so  much  for 
nothing." 


310  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Thorne  looked  at  him  and  wondered  just  how 
much  he  knew.  That  he  had  been  allowed  to  live 
so  long,  surprised  him.  Of  course  he  hoped  that 
there  would  not  be  tragedy,  but  he  already  had 
made  up  his  mind  to  quietly  accept  it  if  it  came. 
He  knew  that  in  a  struggle  he  would  not  be,  in  the 
least,  a  match  for  Ward,  and  in  his  heart  he  knew 
the  man  had  cause  enough  to  kill  him.  He  had 
caught  him  in  his  house,  in  circumstances  which, 
alone  would  have  quite  justified  the  taking  of  his 
life,  and  if  he  knew  it  (of  which  Thorne  was  not 
certain),  he  had  other  causes  for  revenge.  His 
cold  pursuit  of  him  upon  the  Street,  always  with 
the  end  in  view  which  he  had  thought,  this  night, 
to  gain,  but  which  it  was  quite  evident,  he  never 
would  gain  now,  had  been  sufficient  cause.  The 
man's  business  had  been  ruined  and  through  him. 
His  home  had  not  been  ruined  through  him — quite 
— but  he  would  not  believe  that.  He  had  every 
evidence  to  make  him  think  it  had  been. 

"Well,"  said  Ward  again,  "what  did  you 
get?" 

"I  wish  others  had  the  confidence  in  my  business 
ability  that  you  seem  to  have,"  said  Thorne.  "I — 
received  nothing.  I — " 

"You  would  say  that,  anyway." 

"Undoubtedly,"  said  Thorne.  "Only,  as  it 
happens,  this  time  facts  save  me  the  trouble  of 
lying." 

Ward  sneered.    "You  received — nothing." 

"Nothing." 

"Then  you  gave  her  money  because — " 

Thorne  felt  a  slight  relief  because  the  man  did 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  311 

not  rail  at  him  for  the  part  which  he  had  played  in 
his  financial  ruin.  It  might  be  after  all,  that  he  did 
not  know  of  that.  If  so,  there  would  be  just  that 
much  more  chance  that  he  might  leave  the  house 
alive,  although  he  did  not  do  Ward  the  grave  in- 
justice of  thinking  that  at  such  a  time,  financial 
matters  would  weigh  very  heavily. 

UI  gave  money  because  your  confidence  in  my 
business  ability  is  not  borne  out  by  facts,"  said 
Thorne.  "She  attracted  me — your  wife  did.  She 
always  has  attracted  me.  You  were  my  rival  at  the 
start,  and  drove  me  from  the  field.  You  knew 
that,  didn't  you?" 

Ward  nodded  grimly. 

"Well,  I  thought  it  might  perhaps,  be  pleasant, 
now  to — revenge  is  sweet,  you  know — and,  she  still 
attracted  me.  She  is  pretty  and  it  was  an  interest- 
ing experiment.  She — puzzled  me.  I  wanted  to 
find  out  what  she  really  was." 

"And  you  found  out — " 

"What  I  have  told  you." 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  between  the  two 
men  now,  and  Frances  gazed  at  them  in  dumb, 
quaking  terror.  She  was  shamed  by  her  attire,  be- 
yond expression,  now  that  Thorne  was  in  the  room, 
and  this  added  to  her  agony.  She  had  crept  up 
to  the  far  head  of  the  bed  and  stood  there  against 
the  wall,  trembling  still  so  violently  that  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  she  kept  her  teeth  from  chatter- 
ing, clutching  the  curtains  of  the  bed  and  holding 
them  so  that  in  part  they  hid  her  night-robe. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Ward,  at  length,  "whether 
you've  got  decency  enough  to  appeal  to;  but — put 


3i2  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

yourself  in  my  place,  if  you  can.  You'd  have  to 
know  the  truth,  wouldn't  you?  Tell  me." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  Thorne  answered, 
slowly  nodding.  "I  may  be  pretty  much  of  a  skunk 
but  I  can  understand  some  things.  The  truth  is 
what  I've  told  you.  I  got  nothing  for  my  money. 
I  didn't  even  get  her  promises  .  .  .  That's  the  truth 
— and  the  whole  truth — so  help  me  God !" 

Ward  kept  dead  silence,  evidently  thinking  deep*- 
ly,  and  after  waiting  for  an  instant,  to  see  if  he 
would  speak,  Thorne  moved  over  toward  the  couch 
to  get  his  coat  and  hat.  He  raised  them  and  then 
turned  again  to  Richard. 

"It's  none  of  my  business,  I  suppose,"  he  said, 
now  with  a  vicious  smile,  "but  if  you  quit  her — " 

"It  is  none  of  your  business,"  Richard  answered. 
"Good-night." 

"Women  like  her,"  Thorne  said,  unpleasantly, 
and  with  no  sensible  regard  for  his  own  safety, 
"are  one  man's  wife — or  another  man's  mistress. 
Now  if  you  decide — " 

Ward's  self-control  was  gone.  With  a  spring  he 
reached  the  dresser  and  from  its  open  drawer 
snatched  out  the  glittering  revolver.  Instantly  he 
levelled  it  at  Thorne. 

"By— God!"  he  cried. 

The  frightened  trembling  woman  at  the  head  of 
the  bed,  screamed  wildly.  "Richard!"  she  cried. 

Thorne  stood  rigid,  speechless. 

The  husband  did  not  fire  at  him,  but  for  a 
moment,  stood  there  with  the  weapon  levelled, 
thinking.  Then  he  let  his  arm  fall  till  the  pistol 
pointed  to  the  floor  and  pulled  the  trigger. 


%  THE  SPENDTHRIFT  313 

"What's  the  use  1"  he  said,  in  utter  weariness, 
after  the  explosion,  and  while  the  little  spirals  of 
blue  smoke  were  curling  round  his  feet.  "More 
waste !" 

He  threw  the  pistol  at  Thome's  feet  and  left 
the  room  without  a  glance  at  either  of  its  other  in- 
mates. After  a  moment's  wait,  without  even  look- 
ing at  the  woman  cowering  in  the  curtains,  Thorne 
followed  him. 

•  •  •  •  • 

Slipping  on  a  plain  stuff  gown,  taking  with  her 
but  a  little  money  and  no  jewels,  still  tremulous, 
still  terrified,  Frances  an  hour  later,  slipped  out 
into  the  night,  alone,  unseen,  without  a  plan,  her 
whole  soul  filled  with  horror,  mostly  of  herself. 

At  last  she  realized  all  she  had  done  and  for 
what  pitifully  small  purposes  she  had  made  mighty 
sacrifices. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  dawn  had  thurst  grey  fingers  between  the 
heavy  curtains  of  the  library  before  Richard  Ward 
arose  from  the  great  chair  into  which  he  had 
thrown  herself  after  he  had  seen  Thorne  leave  the 
house.  The  man's  face,  as  it  came  up  from  where 
it  had  been  hidden,  horrified,  was  more  than  pale 
— it  was  a  ghastly  visage,  and  his  eyes  were  sunken 
as  a  man's  are  sunken  after  weeks  of  dissipation, 
illness  or  terrific  strain  of  labor.  As  he  had 
dropped  his  head  upon  his  arm,  it  had  pressed 
down  on  a  button  of  his  cuff  and  he  had  not  moved 
it  once.  Now  the  imprint  of  the  button,  deep  and 
livid,  scarred  his  forehead  like  a  wound. 

As  he  rose  he  staggered,  and  his  hands  were,  for 
a  moment,  tremulous. 

The  expression  on  his  face  had  changed.  No 
longer  was  it  set  in  the  stern  mask  which  it  had 
worn  during  all  the  time  when  he  had  been  in  his 
wife's  room  while  forcing  her  confession  from  her, 
afterwards  while  he  had  waited  grimly  there  for 
Thorne,  and  later  still,  when  he  had  met  the  man 
and  vanquished  him.  It  had  softened  very  wonder- 
fully. His  hours  of  thought  had  forced  on  him 
the  firm  conclusion  that,  while  his  wife  had  sinned, 
she  also  had  been  sinned  against.  He  had  come  to 
see  his  faults  as  well  as  hers.  She  had  really  been 
a  child  when  he  had  taken  her,  if  not  in  years,  then 
certainly  in  knowledge  of  the  world  and  her  view- 
point of  life. 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  315 

For  the  first  time  he  realized  that  Aunt  Gret- 
chen's  training  had  been  wrong — all  wrong.  It  had 
lacked  wholly  that  essential  of  essentials,  sympathy. 
Neither  the  teacher  nor  her  pupil  had  understood 
the  other  in  the  least,  and  Frances'  love  for  pretty 
things  had  been,  when  it  had  been  wholly  innocent, 
by  opposition  and  starvation,  changed  into  the  sin 
which  the  good  but  utterly  un-understanding  wo- 
man had  declared  it  was.  They  had  been  unfitted 
to  be  house-mates — utterly  unfitted — and  they  both 
had  suffered;  but  the  injury  to  Frances  had  of 
course,  been  greater  than  the  older  woman's.  Aunt 
Gretchen  had  the  power  on  her  side,  and  she  had 
used  it,  Ward  now  saw,  quite  mercilessly,  if  quite 
unwitting  that  her  use  of  it  was  merciless. 

"The  girl's  soul  was  starved,"  he  said;  and  was 
not  wrong. 

And  what  had  he  done  to  feed  it?  She  had  cried 
for  money  as  a  child  will  cry  for  sweets — and  he 
had  given  her  money.  Was  he  less  to  be  blamed 
for  it  than  the  parent  who  gives  too  many  bonbons 
to  a  baby,  to  the  child's  subsequent  distress?  Her 
innocence,  her  very  childishness,  had  been  the  side 
of  her  which  most  appealed  to  him  and  he  had  not 
made  any  effort  to  protect  her  from  it,  although, 
had  he  but  stopped  to  think,  he  would  have  known 
that  she  would  suffer  from  it,  and  suffering,  would 
soon  or  late,  make  him  suffer  also. 

"I  deserve  to  suffer,"  he  thought,  miserably.  "I 
deserve  to  suffer,  for  the  fault  was  largely  mine." 

With  this  thought  in  his  mind  he  went  upstairs, 
determined  to  appear  before  her  humbly,  asking 
her  forgiveness  of  his  sad  stupidity  begging  her  to 


316  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

let  the  horrors  of  that  night  remain,  in  days  to 
come,  a  dead,  sealed  chapter  in  their  lives,  of 
which  they  would  not  think,  to  which  they  never 
would  make  reference.  That  they  must  start  life 
quite  anew,  was  as  true  now,  as  it  had  been  before; 
but  his  new  plans  for  starting  it  were  very  different 
from  those  he  had  devised  in  his  hard  moods  of 
recent  hours. 

"Frances!"  he  called  softly,  as  he  carefully 
pushed  open  her  room  door.  If  she  chanced  to  be 
asleep  he  did  not  mean  to  wake  her;  he  would  sit 
quiet  by  her  bed  and  wait  until  she  woke. 

When  no  answer  came  he  thought  this  must  be 
certainly  the  case,  and  tiptoed  in,  with  utmost 
care.  But  when  he  saw  the  bed  tumbled  and  empty, 
he  was  a  little  startled. 

"Frances?"  he  called,  more  loudly,  as  he  hur- 
ried toward  her  dressing-room. 

The  following  silence  terrified  him,  somewhat. 
He  did  not  find  her  in  the  dressing-room,  and  be- 
gan to  hurry  as  he  went  from  other  room  to  other 
room  upon  that  floor.  Elise,  when  he  roused  her 
from  her  sleep  and  questioned  her,  looked  at  him, 
bewildered  and  could  offer  not  the  slightest  in- 
formation; the  housekeeper  was  quite  as  ignorant. 
The  down-stairs  servants  were  unable  to  give  him 
any  hint. 

It  was  Elise  who  brought  him  the  first  clew,  a 
little  later.  She  had  discovered  that  her  mistress' 
gowns  were  all  still  in  their  places,  except  for  one 
plain  little  dress  of  dark  brown  woolen.  This  had 
been  brought  with  her  from  the  simple  days  on 
Washington  Square — the  only  relic  of  the  sort — 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  317 

and  had  been  preserved  because  she  had  had  it  on 
when  she  had  first  met  Richard,  Elise  said.  This 
gave  him  a  new  and  dreadful  pang.  Yes,  she  had 
loved  him! 

And  further  than  that  this  single  dress  was  miss- 
ing, and  that  all  the  jewels  which  she  had  at  home, 
and  all  the  pawn-tickets  for  those  which  she  had 
pledged,  were  wrapped  into  a  handkerchief, 
marked  for  her  husband  by  a  card,  and  left  upon 
her  dresser,  discovery  did  not  go.  That  what  sure- 
ly must  have  been  almost  all  her  money  was  left 
lying  with  the  jewels  added  greatly  to  Ward's 
agony  of  mind. 

•  *••••*• 

The  weeks  which  followed  were  too  terrible  to 
seem  real  to  him.  Constantly  he  searched,  and  con- 
stantly the  search  proved  fruitless.  Aunt  Gretchen 
too,  devoted  more  time  to  the  quest  than  she  had 
ever,  since  her  husband's  death,  devoted  to  any- 
thing but  business,  and  (what  was  more  important) 
cleared  Richard's  mind  and  time  for  it  by  insisting 
that  he  take  financial  help  to  pull  him  through  his 
crisis.  But  her  efforts  were  as  wholly  unsuccessful 
as  his  searching  of  the  house  had  been  that  first 
awful  morning.  While  he  grew  haggard,  pale 
and  stooped  from  the  tremendous  strain  and  effort 
of  the  worry  and  the  conscience-stricken  quest, 
Gretchen  Jans,  also,  showed  new  lines  upon  her 
face,  not  wholly  due  to  application  to  the  details 
of  her  business,  but  to  worry  over  the  unhappy  ab- 
sent girl.  Her  remorseful  woe,  indeed,  added  to 
her  strong,  striking  countenance,  a  deep  touch  of 
femininity  which  it  had  lacked  before. 


3i8  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

After  the  third  week  of  Frances'  absence,  Rich- 
ard felt  that  it  was  necessary  that  he  write  to 
Monty  and  Clarice  about  the  tragic  matter  and 
did  so,  advising  them,  however,  not  to  come  back 
east,  where  they  could  not  be  of  the  least  assistance, 
advice  to  which  Aunt  Gretchen  added  an  endorse- 
ment with  a  somewhat  humble  letter  to  Clarice 
explaining  how  completely  the  great  search  was 
being  carried  on.  It  was  the  sort  of  letter  Gret- 
chen Jans  had  never  penned  before  and  would  have 
made  Clarice  gasp  in  sharp  astonishment  had  she 
been  less  absorbed  by  the  dread  news,  or  lack  of 
news,  about  her  sister. 

The  days  were  terrible  and  the  nights  were  tor- 
ment to  the  stricken  man.  Constantly  he  accused 
himself,  ever  he  protested  when  any  but  himself 
attempted  to  take  any  portion  of  the  blame  for 
what  had  happened.  His  occupancy  of  the  house 
was  torture,  but  he  felt  it  to  be  penitential  and 
maintained  it  without  pause.  He  roamed  the 
streets  and  studied  faces  till  his  feet  dragged  and 
his  eyes  ached;  he  had  inquiries  made  in  other 
cities  by  adroit  and  confidential  agents;  he  picked 
up  his  newspapers  each  morning  with  a  pale  face, 
dreading  each  big  head-line,  and  he  never  turned 
to  their  financial  columns  until  after  he  had  studied 
every  particle  of  news  which  dealt  with  woman- 
kind in  sorrow  and  distress.  As  month  passed  after 
month  and  still  there  came  no  news,  his  face 
showed  lines  which  all  the  worry  her  expenditures 
had  caused  him  never  had  etched  in  it.  Now  he 
realized  as  he  had  not,  before,  the  depth  of  his 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  319 

great  love  for  her,  the  measure  of  her  fault  which 
really  was  his,  not  hers,  at  all. 

As  the  months  dragged  by  it  soon  became  the 
fact  that  Frances  had  no  critics  whatsoever  among 
the  little  group  who  had  been  so  much  her  critics 
before  she  fled  from  them  and  from  her  record  of 
mistakes. 

It  was  Cartwright,  though,  in  whom  the  episode 
brought  about  the  greatest  change.  The  silent,  un- 
demonstrative man  saw  all  life  from  a  new  view- 
point after  a  week  or  two  had  passed  and  the  un- 
happy wife  had  not  been  found.  For  the  first  time 
he  began  to  realize  that  Frances  and  her  manifold 
extravagances  had  been  as  much  the  victim  of 
her  nature  and  environment  as  he,  himself,  was 
the  creature  of  his  own.  He  reproached  himself, 
intolerantly,  for  every  criticism  he  had  ever  made 
of  her,  and  would  have  poured  confessions  of  his 
change  of  heart  into  the  ears  of  his  old  friend  had 
he  not  felt  quite  certain  that  for  him  to  do  so 
would  magnify  Ward's  misery.  And  his  searching 
had  a  careful  and  coherent  plan  which  Richard's 
lacked. 

He  felt  the  matter  far  more  deeply  than  he 
would  have  thought  was  possible,  than  the  others 
realized,  than  he  would  acknowledge  to  himself. 
He  was  with  Richard  at  least  part  of  every  evening 
saying  little,  after  he  had  made  it  absolutely  clear 
that  his  old  mental  attitude  toward  Frances  had 
changed,  utterly,  but  assisting  his  old  friend  tre- 
mendously with  sympathetic  companionship,  and 
after  he  had  left  him  always  searching,  searching, 
searching.  During  the  daylight  hours  he  spent  more 


320  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

time  in  looking  for  the  missing  woman  than  he  had 
ever  taken  from  his  business  before,  for  any  pur- 
pose whatsoever. 

Eventually  his  grim  persistence  bore  its  fruit.  It 
was  late  upon  a  winter  afternoon  when  he  decided 
that  a  figure  which  he  had  been  trailing  for  four 
blocks  along  the  greasy  pave  of  Second  avenue 
was  really  that  of  Frances  Ward,  and  not  another 
disappointing  case  of  mere  resemblance.  His  heart 
beat  with  almost  a  terrifying  speed,  when  he  came 
to  this  conclusion,  and  he  hurried  through  the 
crowded  street  with  small  regard  for  others  safe- 
ty or  his  own  until  he  had  achieved  a  place  behind 
the  hurrying  woman,  near  enough  to  let  him  keep 
an  eye  on  her  which  could  not,  possibly  be  diverted 
by  the  thronging  homegoers.  Block  after  block  he 
trailed  her,  as  persistently  as  a  hound  might  trail 
a  fox,  but  with  a  motive  very  different.  He  was 
astonished  by  his  own  emotion.  A  dozen  times 
as  he  clung  patiently  to  the  track  of  the  evidently 
weary,  but  still  hastening  woman  trudging  on  ahead, 
he  choked  and  found  it  necessary  to  raise  one  hand 
or  the  other  to  clear  blurring  tears  out  of  his  eyes. 
When  he  saw  her  mount  the  high  steps  leading  to 
a  boarding-house,  obviously  of  the  third-class,  and 
quickly  disappear,  his  heart  leaped  with  an  elation 
which  it  had  not  felt  since  he  had  reached  the  years 
of  manhood.  The  certainty  that  he  had  found  her 
filled  him  with  a  satisfaction  not  in  the  least  dim- 
med by  his  resolution  to  explain  to  her,  at  once,  his 
firm  conviction  that  he  had  been  terribly  at  fault  in 
many  of  the  things  which  he  has  said  to  her,  in 
many  of  the  thoughts  which  he  had  harboured  of 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  321 

her.  He  would  hurry  to  a  telephone  and  send  the 
glad  news  to  his  friends — to  Richard  and  to  Gret- 
chen  Jans,  and  then,  before  they  would  arrive,  ex- 
plain to  her. 

Frances  was  very  weary  as  she  climbed  the  dingy 
stairs  that  night,  and  the  gloomy  weather  had 
added  greatly  to  her  deep  depression.  Her  hand 
trembled  from  sheer  exhaustion  as  she  thrust  the 
key  into  the  lock  of  the  small  room  at  the  top  and 
rear  of  the  old-fashioned,  low-ceiled,  fusty  room, 
and  when  she  entered  she  sank  limply  into  the  one 
easy  chair  the  place  could  offer,  without  even 
troubling  to  light  the  gas.  Her  heart  was  quite 
as  near  failing  her  that  night,  as  it  had  been  at  any 
time  since  she  had  fled  from  the  great  house  upon 
the  Avenue,  and  as  she  sat  there  in  the  gloom,  her 
eyes  were  damp  and,  now  and  then,  her  breath 
raught  in  a  sob. 

She  had  learned  many  lessons  since  that  tremend- 
ous night  of  most  terrific  tutelage,  and  learned 
them  in  the  bitter  school  of  unremitting,  unprotect- 
ed, actual  effort.  She  saw  a  thousand  things  more 
clearly  now;  and,  seeing  them  thus  clearly,  she 
found  no  room  in  her  heart  for  a  resentment  to- 
ward anybody  but  herself.  It  was  quite  clear  to 
her  that  all  the  fault,  from  the  beginning,  had  been 
hers  and  hers  alone;  her  only  wonder  was  that 
Richard  had  endured  so  long.  She  did  not  even 
wonder  if  he  loved  and  missed  her;  she  felt  certain 
that  he  could  not  possibly,  do  either.  Deep  in  her 
heart  there  was  the  strong  conviction  that  he  cer- 
tainly was  better  off  without  her,  that  he  certainly 


322  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

must  feel  relief,  not  woe,  at  loss  of  her.  So  hearty 
was  her  self-contempt  that  she  could  not  concieve 
that  anyone  could  feel  for  her  another  sentiment. 
Now,  when  she  was  forced  to  count  her  dimes  in 
order  to  eke  out  her  meagre  livelihood,  she  for  the 
first  time  felt  a  real  appreciation  of  the  dollars  she 
had  wasted;  now  when  she  was  forced  to  labor  for 
those  dimes,  she  for  the  first  time  felt  some  measure 
of  comprehension  of  what  Richard  must  have  felt 
in  the  face  of  her  continual  waste. 

Her  heart  was  very  heavy,  her  body  very  weary. 
Life  loomed  before  her  dark  and  unattractive — an 
existence  to  be  tolerated  as  a  penance  for  her  by- 
gone faults — untempting  and  unlovely.  When 
Cartwright's  rap  snapped  through  the  semi-dark- 
ness of  the  room  it  interrupted  very,  very  bitter 
thoughts,  all  self-condemnatory,  all  full  of  love  of 
Richard  and  of  a  new  and  better  understanding  of 
Aunt  Gretchen. 

"Come,"  she  called  wearily;  believing  that  the 
caller  was  the  slattern  maid  who  liked  her,  and  who 
sometimes  brought  her  supper  to  her  on  a  tray, 
when  she  had  seen  her  enter  with  a  particularly 
weary  droop  of  shoulders  and  an  especially  drag- 
ging step.  "Well?" 

She  did  not  turn  at  first,  but  when,  after  the 
opening  of  the  door  and  the  entrance  of  the  person 
she  had  bid  come  in,  there  was  no  answer  to  her 
brief  interrogation,  she  looked  slowly  round,  un- 
interested, scarcely  curious  at  all. 

The  sight  of  Cartwright  startled  her,  amazed 
her.  She  did  not  rise,  but  leaned  quickly  forward 
in  the  shabby  old  easy  chair,  her  elbows  bent,  her 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  323 

thin  hands  clasping  its  frayed  arms,  her  almost 
frightened  eyes  fixed  with  a  tense  inquiry  on  his 
face. 

"So  it  is  you,"  the  lawyer  said,  at  length,  in  such 
a  voice  as  she  had  never  heard  from  him,  before. 
"I  was  afraid  I  might  have  been  mistaken." 

"It  is  I,"  she  granted,  and  then  waited  for  some 
further  speech  from  him,  some  explanation  of  his 
presence  there. 

"And  you—" 

"Yes;  I  have  been  living  here  a  number  of 
months,  now." 

She  rose  now,  suddenly.  She  believed  that  she 
had  solved  the  riddle  of  his  presence.  The  thought 
cut  her  heart  like  a  knife,  but  would  not  be  denied. 
She  believed  it  to  be  wholly  logical,  despite  the 
horror  of  it.  Her  face  whitened,  even  beyond  the 
pallor  which  had  now  become  habitual  to  it. 

He  made  no  comment,  but  let  his  eyes  rove  slow- 
ly round  the  shabby  room  and  she  went  to  the  gas 
and  lighted  it,  her  breast  in  an  agony  of  woe.  Of 
course,  she  told  herself,  the  man  had  sought  her 
out  and  come,  as  Richard's  lawyer,  to  arrange,  if 
possible  for  a  divorce.  He  doubtless  still  felt 
measureless  contempt  for  her  and  might  believe 
that  she  would  fight — fight  for  still  more  of  the 
money  which  she  had  so  ruthlessly  cast  to  the  winds 
in  the  old  days.  Well,  if  he  had  come  for  that, 
she  would  surprise  him  by  explaining  to  him  that 
she  knew  her  husband  was  quite  justified,  that  she 
would  make  no  protest. 

"I  think  I  understand,"  she  said,  when  he  still 


324  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

stood  there,  silent  and  observing.  "This  is  one 
more  of  the  punishments  that  I  deserve." 

He  did  not  for  an  instant  guess  what  thoughts 
were  passing  through  her  mind  and  did  not  under- 
stand, at  all.  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  exclaimed. 

"You  needn't,"  she  said,  wearily.  "I  deserve 
so  much  that  things  like  that  mean  little  to  me." 

"I  am  sorry." 

In  order  that  he  might  clearly  understand  that 
she  was  taking  life  quite  seriously  now,  was  earn- 
ing for  herself  an  honest  livelihood  by  honest  labor, 
she  went  on:  "There  are  two  children  that  I 
teach.  I  am  a  governess." 

He  gazed  at  her  in  silence,  unable  to  find  words. 

"I  worked  in  a  store,  at  first.  Then  I  was — 
sick.  When  I  got  well  I  found  the  place  where  I 
am,  now.  I — like  it — as  much  as  I  can  ever  like 
anything,  again  . . .  How  did  you  find  me?" 

"I  happened  to  be  passing.  I  saw  someone  who 
looked  like  you  and  followed  her,  because  I  have 
been  looking  for  you.  I  saw  you  come  here  and 
so  I  also  came  here  .  .  .  You  shouldn't  have  run 
away  as  you  did,  in  the  night." 

"Do  you  think  I  could  have  stayed,  after — 
that?" 

"But—" 

"You  said  many,  many  times,  that  I  had  spoiled 
his  life." 

He  would  have  made  some  protest,  but  she 
would  not  let  him  speak. 

"Not  in  words,  perhaps,"  she  went  on,  hurriedly, 
"but  you  said  it.  .  .  It  was  true.  And  the  least 
I  could  do  was  to  go  away." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  325 

"For  months — ever  since — " 

"Ever  since  that  night." 

"Yes,  ever  since  that  night,  we've  been  trying  to 
find  you." 

She  smiled  somewhat  wearily.  "It  is  easy  to  lose 
one's  self  in  New  York  City.  They  tell  me  that 
thieves — murderers — criminals  of  all  sorts — come 
here  for  that.  They  are  safe  here,  in  the  city, 
where  nobody  knows  and  nobody  cares  about  any- 
body else." 

"That's  true."  He  nodded  gravely.  "It's 
farther  from  Fifth  Avenue  to  Third  Avenue  than 
from  Canada  to  Mexico." 

She  did  not  pursue  this  line  of  talk,  but  after  a 
moment's  pause,  said  thoughtfully:  "I'm  glad 
you've  come.  I've  been  wondering  .  .  .  wondering 
if  I  had  the  right  to  hide.  I've  been  telling  myself 
that  it  might  be  that  he — that  Richard — would 
want  to — divorce  me." 

"But—" 

"I've  been  wondering  that — thinking  that.  I 
tried  .  .  .  many  times  ...  to  let  you  know  where  I 
was.  .  .  But  I  never  quite  found  the  strength.  I'm 
still  ,  .  .  very  selfish  you  see." 

"No,"  he  said,  almost  explosively. 

"But  I'm  not  vain,  any  more:  and  I  don't  think 
I  am  as  silly  as  I  was :  and  I  know — I  know  now, 
all  the  things  that  I  should  have  known — and 
didn't." 

"You—" 

"Don't  interrupt  me,  please.  Let  me  go  on.  I 
want  to  say  these  things  now,  while  you  are  here— - 
while  I  have  the  strength.  You  can  tell  him — that 


326  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

I  want  to  do  anything  he  says  .  .  .  that  he  is  not  to 
consider  me,  at  all.  Tell  him  that  I  am  well,  and 
— happy.  He  owes  me  nothing.  He  can  never 
owe  me  anything  .  .  .  for  I  couldn't  accept  it.  I 
took  the  best  part  of  his  life  and  wasted  it.  And  I 
only  want  to  be  able  to  pay  him  back  a  little  of  all 
that  I  owe  him  .  .  .  You  are  his  friend.  Ask  him 
what  he  wishes  me  to  do  ...  And  tell  me,  and  I  will 
do  it." 

UT »» 

"You  have  talked  with  him,  perhaps?  Perhaps 
he  has  already  told  you.  I  should  like  to  know, 
now.  It  is  hard  to  wait." 

Cartwright  would  have  protested  many  times, 
but  she  had  hurried  on  with  added  speed  whenever 
she  had  seen  that  he  was  about  to  speak.  Now  he 
almost  hurried.  She  had  never  heard  him  in  the 
least  approach  to  hurry  in  his  speech  before. 

"He  has  said  nothing,"  he  protested.  "Only  he 
has  hunted  for  you  night  and  day.  And  he  asked  me 
to  hunt,  too,  and  I  have  hunted.  I  was  hunting 
from  the  first.  Your  going  hurt  him  more  than  all 
the  rest.  That  I  know." 

She  was  really  distressed.  She  had  worked  her- 
self into  a  strange  brain  attitude.  Her  condemna- 
tion of  herself  had  been  so  utterly  unsparing  that 
she  had  scarcely  been  able  to  conceive  of  charity 
toward  her  in  any  other's  heart. 

"I  didn't  want  to  hurt  him,"  she  said  miserably. 
"If  I  had  thought  that — why,  I  thought  he  would 
be  glad  if  he  should  never  see  me  again.  That's 
why  I  went.  I  didn't  see  what  else  there  was  for 
me  to  do  except  to  go  away." 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  327 

Cartwright  started  to  say  something,  then  caught 
himself  and  evidently  turned  to  a  quite  different 
thought.  "I'm  sorry,"  he  said  slowly.  "You  said, 
once,  that  you  didn't  like  me — and  that  I  didn't  like 
you.  On  my  part  that  is  no  longer  true." 

Such  a  speech  as  this,  from  him,  amazed  her. 
She  had  not  thought  him  capable  of  a  new  attitude, 
for  she  had,  possibly,  as  wholly  misjudged  him 
as  he  had  misjudged  her — or,  rather,  each  had 
judged  the  other  very  harshly. 

"I  want  you  to  forgive  me,"  he  said,  looking 
straight  into  her  eyes  instead  of  at  his  feet  as  had 
been  his  usual  custom  when  addressing  her.  "Will 
you?" 

"There  is  nothing  for  me  to  forgive,"  said  she, 
possibly  too  weary  to  be  quite  conscious  of  the 
fact  that  the  apology  from  him  meant  more  than 
an  apology  from  most  men  could  have  meant.  "You 
were  his  friend,  and  I,  his  wife,  was  unworthy — 
and  you  knew  it,  then — as  I  know  it,  now.  It  is 
for  me  to  ask  forgiveness." 

"I  won't  let  you  say  that,"  he  protested,  still 
in  a  manner  wholly  foreign  to  Phil  Cartwright. 
"You've  been  alone  too  much.  You " 

"Loneliness  brings  thought,  and  thought  brings 
reason." 

UT »» 

He  did  not,  then,  add  anything  to  the  single 
word,  but  with  a  gesture  of  impulsiveness  as  strange 
to  him  as  had  been  the  recent  manner  of  his 
speech,  thrust  forth  his  hand. 

She  looked  at  it  with  real  amazement  for  a  sec- 
ond, and  then  laid  her  own  in  it;  but  there  was  not 


328  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

very  much  enthusiasm  in  her  movement.  It  was  not 
that  she  was  not  glad  to  make  friends  with  him. 
All  her  old  resentment  of  his  manner  had  gone 
from  her.  It  was  that  she  was  too  weary  and  too 
overwrought  to  quite  appreciate  how  absolute  the 
man's  surrender  was.  From  Phil  Cartwright  the 
impulsive  action  meant  a  thousand  times  as  much 
as  it  would  mean  from  any  average  man. 

Thus,  for  a  second,  they  stood,  looking  into 
one  another's  eyes;  then  he  amazed  her  by  depart- 
ing instantly,  as  soon  as  the  hand  clasp  relaxed. 
She  stood  somewhat  blankly  looking  at  the  door 
which  he  had  closed  behind  him. 

For  a  moment,  a  long  moment,  she  was  hesitant, 
then  she  started  toward  the  door,  herself,  perhaps 
intending  to  call  to  him  to  come  back;  but,  if  this 
had  been  her  thought,  she  did  not  put  it  into  exe- 
cution, but  turned  and  crossed  the  room,  went  to 
the  window,  gazed  from  it,  unseeing,  for  a  mo- 
ment; went  to  the  bureau,  fumbled,  unfeeling,  the 
few  things  lying  on  it. 

Then,  choking  a  little,  but  not  weeping,  she  sank 
into  a  chair  and  there  buried  her  face  in  her 
crooked  elbow  on  its  arm.  The  sobs  were  coming 
now. 

But  they  were  interrupted  by  the  sound,  with- 
out, of  hurrying  footsteps,  and,  an  instant  later, 
Monty  and  Clarice  rushed  in.  They  had  been  at 
the  house  when  Cartwright's  telephone  message 
had  reached  there,  waiting  for  Dick's  arrival  from 
some  one  of  his  wanderings  about  the  city  in  his 
aimless,  agonized  search  for  his  wife.  Clarice, 
considering  matters  in  their  far  off  home,  had  found 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  329 

remaining  there  another  moment  quite  unbearable, 
while  Frances  was  in  trouble  and  Monty  had 
agreed  with  her  that  the  sooner  they  could  hurry 
to  New  York  the  better. 

"Fran!  Oh,  Fran!"  Clarice  cried,  half  hysteri- 
cally, as  she  rushed  toward  her  sister  with  her  arms 
outstretched — arms  much  more  motherly  than, 
girlish,  now.  The  months  had  made  a  great  change 
in  the  girl. 

Frances  rose  and  ran  to  her  "Clare  I"  she  cried. 
"You  here !" 

Monty  paused,  just  within  the  door.  After  a  de- 
cent interval  he  said,  complainingly:  "Let  me  in 
on  this,  too,  can't  you?" 

"But  I  thought  you  were  away  out  west!"  said 
Frances,  wonderingly. 

"Clare  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer,  without 
coming  here  to  join  the  search  for  you,"  said 
Monty,  "and,  as  I  had  made  a  hit,  they  put  me 
in  the  New  York  office." 

"So,"  said  Clare,  "we  left  camp  Tuesday  morn- 
ing " 

"And  we  came  all  the  way  from  Chicago  in  a 
day  coach,"  Monty  added.  "Clare's  still  economiz- 
ing, you  know.  She  even  makes  me  smoke  a  pipe." 

"It  isn't  that,"  his  wife  protested,  "but  cigar- 
ettes are  bad  for  you." 

"Well,  a  pipe's  bad  for  the  neighbors." 

"Silly!"  said  Clarice.  And  then,  "But  where's 
Aunt  Gretchen?" 

Frances  was  a  bit  dismayed.  "Is — she  with 
you?" 

"She  came  down  in  the  car  with  us  and  Phil 


330  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Cartwright — we  stopped  to  pick  them  up.  He 
asked  us  to.  But  we  ran  up  ahead.  They  were  so 
slow!" 

"Aunt  Gretchen's  getting  old,"  said  Frances, 
with  a  new  consideration. 

Just  then  she  arrived  at  the  room  door  and  en- 
tered, puffing  wearily. 

"Aunt  Gretchen  I"  Frances  cried. 

But  if  Gretchen  Jans  felt  the  emotions  of  the 
parent  welcoming  the  prodigal,  she  curbed  them 
for  the  moment,  although  her  eyes  were  somewhat 
shiny  as  if,  possibly,  she  really  did  feel  them. 

"Frances,"  she  said,  gravely,  "I've  a  good  mind 
to  spank  you.  You've  worried  us  all  sick.  What 
did  you  mean  by  running  away  like  that?" 

"But  Aunt  Gretchen — " 

"I  guess  you're  my  niece,  aren't  you?"  the  old 
woman  demanded  tartly.  "And  do  you  suppose 
that  anything  in  the  world  could  make  me  forget 
that?" 

"But  you  said—" 

"What  difference  does  it  make  what  I  said?" 

"You  told  me—" 

"I  told  you  I  wasn't  going  to  give  you  money  to 
throw  in  the  air.  But  I  didn't  say  anything  about 
not  giving  you  any  to  eat  with,  did  I?" 

"Yes;  but—" 

"And  don't  you  know  that  old  women  with 
one  foot  in  the  grave  and  the  other  in  Wall  Street 
often  say  things  they  don't  mean?  And  couldn't 
mean,  if  they  tried  to?  You  come  here.  I  want  to 
kiss  you  first — before  I  scold  you  any  more.  .  .  I 
think  I'll  cry  a  little,  too.  .  .  I.  .  .  I  haven't.  .  . 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  331 

cried  in  ...  forty  years  .  .  .  and  it'll  be  good 
exercise  for  me." 

Frances  went  to  her,  and  Aunt  Gretchen,  taking 
her  in  two  motherly  and  very  closely  clasping  arms, 
emphatically  broke  her  record  of  abstention  from 
emotion. 

But  presently  the  two  happy  women  found  that 
they  were  laughing  and  not  crying. 

"Can't  you  let  us  in  on  this?"  asked  Monty. 
"We  want  to  laugh,  too.  What's  the  game? 
What's  it  all  about?" 

"Young  man,  children,"  said  Aunt  Gretchen, 
"should  be  seen  and  not  heard." 

"But  we're  neither  seen  nor  heard!" 

"It  was  all  my  fault,  Mont,"  Frances  said,  and 
turned  toward  him,  explaining  to  him  what  had 
happened.  "He — Dick — was  too  good  for  me.  I 
didn't  know  the  things  I  should  have  known,  and 
I  did  him  a  very  grave  wrong,  and — " 

"There,  there !"  Aunt  Gretchen  said,  protesting. 
"That's  enough  of  that!" 

"No,"  her  contrite  niece  replied.  "They'll  learn 
sometime.  I'd  better  tell  them  myself — now." 

Clarice  now  would  have  spoken,  but  her  sister 
stopped  her. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  "I'd  brought  Dick  only  wor- 
ry and  care  and  unhappiness — and  then — partly  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  help  him — but  more  because  I 
was  selfish  and  knew  so  little — I  did  something  that 
I — shouldn't  have  done.  I  lied — I — 

"But  it  wasn't  very  bad,  was  it,  Aunt  Gretchen — 
the  thing  I  did?  I  used  to  think  of  it  all  the  time, 


332  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

while  I  was  lying  here,  sick.  I  used  to  wonder  just 
how  bad  the  thing  I  had  done  really  was." 

"You  were  sick?"  said  Aunt  Gretchen,  all  her 
motherly  instincts  roused. 

"And  hungry,  too,  lots  of  times,"  said  Frances, 
nodding.  "There  were  times — oh,  but  I'm  not 
complaining.  There  were  so  many  others  more 
hungry — more  miserable — than  I !  I  never  knew 
the  world  was  like  that  before.  Those  girls  in  the 
stores — trying  to  live  and  care  for  others — on  six 
dollars  a  week !  And  the  people  in  the  tenements ! 
...  I  was  almost  happy  when  I  got  away  from 
the  suffering  and  found  the  kiddies  to  teach." 

"You're  teaching,  Fran?"  said  Clarice,  in  amaze- 
ment. 

"Yes,  you  ought  to  see  them,  Aunt  Gretchen. 
You'd  love  them.  One  of  them  is  named  Monty- 
morency — I  call  him  'Monty,"  for  short,  Monty. 
He's  the  littlest  one.  I  don't  suppose  he'll  ever  be 
able  to  say  his  name  in  full.  The  other  is  Bud — 
'Buddie,'  we  call  him.  I'll  show  you  their  pic- 
tures." 

She  went  now  to  the  bureau,  opened  a  drawer 
and  searched  there  for  the  photographs. 

"Their  father,"  she  explained,  while  she  was 
busy  at  this  task,  "is  in  the  grocery  business." 

Her  back  was  toward  the  door  and  as  Cart- 
wright  entered  softly  she  was  too  busy  with  her 
quest  to  hear  him. 

"He  has  a  wholesale  place  on  Fulton  Street,"  she 
went  on,  somewhat  troubled  because  she  could  not 
find  the  photographs. 

Cartwright  beckoned  to  the  others  to  go  with 


THE  SPENDTHRIFT  333 

him  cautiously  and,  slowly  understanding  what  was 
coming,  they  tiptoed  from  the  room,  while  she  still 
bent  above  the  open  bureau  drawer. 

"And  their  mother  is  so  gentle  and  so  sweet  and 
womanly,"  said  Frances,  not  knowing  they  had  left. 
"They're  very  happy.  I  didn't  know  that  children 
could  make  people  happy,  like  that.  They  don't 
live  for  anything  else,  you  know;  they  don't  seem 
to  want  anything  else  to  live  for!" 

Still  the  photographs  eluded  her. 

As  softly  as  the  others  had  gone  out,  now,  Rich- 
ard entered. 

"They  seem  to  like  me,"  she  went  on,  as  utterly 
unconscious  of  his  presence  as  she  had  been  of  the 
departure  of  the  others.  "They're  going  to  move 
into  a  larger  house  in  the  spring — near  the  Park — 
and  they  want  me  to  come  and  live  with  them." 

Richard  stood  looking  at  her  hungrily.  Then, 
suddenly,  he  called  to  her,  and  his  call  was  hungry. 

"Frances !"  he  cried.  "I  need  you !  I  want  you !" 


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